The Earth Goes Around the Sun (And Other Things Sherlock Has to Learn)
by foureyedfool
Summary: Upon learning that his flatmate is not only an alien but also has an adult son and a dead wife, Sherlock finds himself struggling to trust anything and everything John says to him, even when John tells him that he loves him. As Sherlock is coming to terms with his own ignorance, Sherlock and John need to find a way to make their friendship-and a budding relationship-work.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This chapter is all texting, but Chapter 2-onward will be prose. Please leave feedback if you feel so inclined, and thanks for reading! :)**

 _Sherlock_. It's been three weeks. JW

Yes? SH

[Delayed] Ready to talk? JW

Yes. SH

 _Brilliant_. Come home, I've made tea. JW  
Mrs. Hudson has popped out for the afternoon, so if you need to shout - be my guest. JW

I would prefer if we speak over text. I do prefer it, you know. SH  
I shout regardless of whether she is there or not. She doesn't mind. SH  
Or at least, I don't mind if she minds. SH

She _does_ mind. Frightens the poor old thing. JW  
You'll have to come home at some point anyhow, and I'll be waiting. JW  
[Delayed] Anyway, I take it you've got a few questions. JW

She should be used to it by now. SH  
Yes, I will need to be home soon enough. I have had to buy new clothes. I _hate_ shopping for clothes. SH

[Delayed] You _bought_ clothes? You actually went to a store? JW

You _tried_ on clothes? Wow. JW

It was either that or stand, nude, while I waited for previous outfit to be washed in a laundromat. No, I did not try them on. I know my measurements; a simple glance tells me whether or not a garment will fit. SH

 _Relax_ , Sherlock. I'm simply impressed you left the flat for anything other than a case. JW  
Well done, by the way. I'll inform Mycroft of this joyful occasion. JW

It does happen from time to time. SH  
He already knows. I have been staying with him. SH

[Delayed] You can come home, you know. JW  
Nothing has changed. The flat's still the way you left it. JW

I am sure there are subtle differences. SH

I even left those lamb eyeballs festering in the sink. JW  
Subtle, yes, fine. JW  
But we're still mates, right? JW

Of course they are not subtle to me, because I notice them as easily as I would notice a drastic change. SH  
Mates. Yes. SH

[Delayed] If you're worried that I'm dangerous, don't. JW  
Have you mentioned anything to Mycroft? JW

I have never feared dangerous things, John. I'm not about to start now. SH

 _Good_. So come home. JW

Of course not. Of course he is suspicious as to why I am not returning to Baker Street, so I told him that you told me you were infatuated with me and wished to engage in a romantic and sexual relationship with me. SH  
It was the first lie that came to mind. It worked. SH

[Long Delay] You informed your brother that _I_ propositioned myself towards you? Sherlock! He probably bloody thinks of me as some sort of sexually charged deviant. JW  
For Christ's sake, tell him it's a bloody lie! JW

I believe your ex-girlfriends or hookups would agree, Mr. Three-Continents Watson. SH

 _Shut up_. JW

Do relax. He only scoffed and rolled his eyes, as is his way. SH

Seriously, I'll text him myself. JW  
The rumours are already blazing. No need to throw more petrol on the fire. JW

You would rather him know that you are an alien? Unwise, John. SH

[Long Delay] Don't use that word. JW

What word? Alien? I shouldn't call you an alien? SH  
Would you prefer extraterrestrial? SH

Yes, _that_ one. And sod the other one, you clot. I'm _John._ JW

And I am Sherlock, a human. You are John, the-whatever your species is called. It is not derogatory; it is factual. SH

Oh, you're human? _Really?_ Call the newspapers. Contact the media. London, we've got ourselves a _human_. JW

I was making a point. SH

Point taken, acknowledged and received. JW

Then stop being an idiot. SH  
If you can. SH  
Personally, I have my doubts. SH

I'm not being an idiot, Sherlock. You're the one who has practically given up on our friendship. JW

I haven't given up on our friendship. I needed time away to think through things. SH

You've had three solid weeks. Time's up. JW  
People are starting to talk, Sherlock. Lestrade wants to know what the sod is going on. JW  
Mrs. Hudson keeps asking me questions, and I'm fairly sure Mycroft won't believe that I'm some sort of sexual predator for much longer. JW

I do not think you have the right to rush me. SH  
Granted, that has never stopped me, but you are not me. SH

How much longer are you going to keep this up for? JW  
I'm not going to stop being what I am, you sod. I _can't_. JW

I am aware of that. It is simply taking time to process. SH

[Delayed] I probably should make mention that any and _all_ DNA samples you've potentially stolen off me must be destroyed. JW

Yes, I am already aware of that. Do not worry; there are not any. I only use them for the experiment and then dispose of them. SH

You're experimenting on my DNA? JW

Never mind, not surprising. But please, do stop. JW

I will attempt to resist the temptation to not do so again. SH

Thank you. Good. JW

You are not in any danger from me. SH

I never believed that I was. At least, you wouldn't hurt me intentionally. JW  
But drawing attention to our collapsing friendship will draw attention to _me_ JW

I would not, no. However, I do hurt everyone unintentionally at some point or another. You are well aware of that, of course. SH

Of course I know that. I _live_ with you. JW  
Or, I did. JW

Why does it matter that you will have attention drawn to you? It's not as if that will have them make the leap to 'John Watson isn't human'. SH  
If anything, people believe that about _me_. SH

[Delayed] Ironic, isn't it? And oddly enough, people _notice._ But it's not people I'm worried about, it's that brother of yours. JW  
If he knew what you knew, it's suddenly a matter of National Security. JW

I can assure you, Mycroft does not care enough about you to watch you. SH  
He had little respect for you before. Now that he thinks you are, to quote yourself, a 'sexual deviant', he has even less. SH

And it won't be long until he realises it's all a very nicely crafted facade. JW

John. He will not know. SH

[Delayed] I've spent far too many years on this floating rock blending in. I swear to Christ, if I get caught because of you…JW

You _won't_ You trusted me before this. Trust me now. SH

I'll start trusting you again when you move back in. JW

You may need to wait a bit longer, in that case. SH

[Delayed] And yes, I'm aware that's a tad hypocritical. I _should_ have told you when I met you, but I'm sure you can understand why I didn't. JW  
A bit longer? Are you scared of me? Is that it? JW

I am not scared of you. SH

So what's the reason? JW  
I'm not going to _probe_ you, for Christ's sake. Those movies really send out the wrong message. JW

I am not scared, John. SH

So what's the reason? JW  
If you refuse to be upfront with me, I'm afraid I can't help you with any of your... Queries. JW

You're right. Most people would require only one week to come to terms with this. SH  
How dare I require longer. SH

I never said that. Don't bloody put words in my mouth, sod. JW  
I don't see what the problem is. Yes, it's a shock. Yes, I've been lying. But I'm still your _friend_. JW

I believe I am going to delete the information. SH  
I have been toying with the idea. SH

I'm not here by choice. I'm not here to 'infiltrate' Earth and all its secrets. I'm not here to experiment. JW  
I crashed, I adapted, and I moved on when I realised that help was never coming. JW  
Deleting this isn't going to fix anything. JW

Idiot. Crashing your own ship. SH

Not my choice, and I wasn't the pilot. JW

On the contrary, deleting it will fix everything. SH

[Delayed] You have questions, yes? Lots and lots of questions. Any concerns, I can put your fears at ease but you have to _let_ me help you. JW  
Deleting everything that happened is just one _huge_ step back. JW

One would think that I would have questions, but I can assure you that I am struggling to think of a single thing to ask. SH

Where am I from? How old am I? How many species populate the multiple galaxies scattered around the various quadrants? I'm sure I can think of a few. JW  
Or the better one, am I dangerous? What did I used to do before this? I could have been a prisoner, a mercenary. An 'assassin'. JW

You are from Earth. Leeds. You are thirty-six. There are approximately seven-point one-two-five billion others of your species living on earth and innumerable other species on same. You are dangerous; you are quite skilled with a handgun, or your fists. You were a doctor serving the British Army in Afghanistan. SH  
I have answered your questions. SH

And yet, you got them mostly wrong. JW

That's hardly my fault. They are all things that I was told. By you. Whom I trusted. Because you are my friend. SH

I'm not from Earth. Planet name can't be translated to the English language, but the closest 'sounding' word I believe is 'Terra'. Population, four billion, give or take a few hundred million. I was and have always been a medic, also known as a 'doctor'. Combat medic for the Federation, actually - and a bloody good one. I _am_ dangerous, given my skill-set. I've been known to hit a target from time to time. JW  
[Delayed] It's a backstory, Sherlock. I've recited it enough to the point where I almost believe it myself. JW

That certainly makes it all right, then. SH

No, it doesn't make it right. But would you honestly have been okay with the truth? JW  
'Hello. I'm an alien, let's be flatmates'. JW  
Ah, yes. That would have gone down swimmingly. JW

I would rather have an alien for a flatmate than a liar who strings me along like a bloody toy. SH

Now, hold on a _bloody_ minute. I omitted to the truth, yes. But I never _lied_ to your face in a way that disadvantaged our friendship. JW

Harry. SH  
Your parents. SH  
Those were lies. SH

Harry's a friend. My _parents_ likely believe me to be long dead. JW

Being born at Spire Leeds, a lie. SH  
Your childhood stories, lies. SH

Start a lie, and it just keeps building. I didn't have a choice. JW

How old are you? SH

My service to the military on Earth was real. JW  
Does it matter? JW

You cannot demand that I ask questions and then not answer them when I do. SH

Sixty eight. JW

Ancient. SH

 _Shut up_. JW

Your kind lives to what, then? Two-hundred or so? SH

Two hundred and thirty is the standard average for a male. Two hundred and forty nine is the average for a female. JW

Then you are a quarter of the way through your life. Congratulations. SH

[Delayed] It's nothing brilliant to boast about. I'm still technically on the younger and much more inexperienced side of things. JW

I was being sarcastic anyway. SH

I figured. The sarcasm was seething through your text. JW  
Now, are you convinced that I'm not a danger? JW

 _You_ are the one who keeps talking about you being dangerous. I have never once said that. SH  
Save for my comment about your skills with a gun and your fists. SH

I can understand your apprehension. In your shoes, I can understand your fear. It's natural. JW

I am not afraid of you. SH

But aside from that, I'm still me. I'm John. You know, your friend? JW  
[Delayed] You're absolutely certain that Mycroft doesn't suspect a thing? JW

Friend. Yes. Granted, very little of what you have told me about your past is true, but you are still you. Of course. SH  
Confident. He would not be able to keep it to himself. He does love to gloat. SH

I still got shot the shoulder. I went to Afghanistan. Bits and pieces are true. JW  
Well, I'd imagine not. I represent an organisation with enough manpower and artillery to bring a planet to its knees. I wouldn't blame him. JW

Bits and pieces. How nice. SH  
Does anyone even know you are here? SH

I _hate_ cats. That's true. JW  
When the ship went down, three men and one woman on board were killed upon impact. There's another one who is currently missing, and then there's me. JW  
No. We weren't even meant to be in this part of the galaxy. We were under attack, and then we crashed. JW

So more than likely, no. You represent an organisation with enough manpower and artillery to bring a planet to its knees, and that organisation does not even know you are here. You understand why my brother would not be particularly intimidated by you. SH

I never said that's what they _do_. The Federation is a peacekeeping organisation. They wish to end wars, not start them. JW  
I was on my way to a colony a few weeks travel from Earth when we were hit. JW

But they fight them. They fight in the wars they wish to end, in the pursuit of peace. Ironic. SH

They _have_ to. Not everyone gets along. JW  
Like I said, we were attacked. JW

And I am ever so sorry for that. SH

Sorry? You did nothing. JW  
Earth didn't attack us. JW

More sarcasm. SH  
Does Harry know? You said she is a friend. Surely you told her that you also use her as a representation of your sister. SH

[Delayed] She's aware, yes. Hence the reason she's such a raging alcoholic. JW  
But she always agreed to keep up the ruse for my sake. JW

Who else? SH

Who else? Why would you assume there'd be others? JW

Am I incorrect? SH

[Delayed] No. JW

Just as I thought. SH

Stamford found out on his own accord, I never told him. JW  
Until he approached me with proof. Smarter than he looks. JW

What did he use to deal with it? Harry uses liquor, I have taken once more to heroin, what does he use? SH

Stamford's an astrology nut. He was over the moon, to be honest. JW  
And don't you dare take heroin. I don't need you to relapse. Not now. JW

You have someone in your corner, then. Good. SH  
I already have done. SH

[Delayed] Does Mycroft know? JW  
Because he's about to. JW

Of course he knows. He knows everything. SH  
Except for this, obviously. SH

[Delayed] I'm in my right mind to charge over there right now, Sherlock. JW  
For Christ's sake, you relapsed? JW

Just a bit. SH

Humans and drugs. I'll never bloody get it. JW

Yes, I'm sure your species has no vices whatsoever. SH  
Save for the lying, of course. SH

 _Shut up_ , Sherlock. You're behaving like a child. JW  
Although, given your age. Technically you _are_ a child. JW

I would say it's a pretty good excuse. SH

My own _son_ had a far greater maturity level than you, you prat. JW

Oh, you've got children, too? How lovely. SH

One. And that's not important. JW

And a wife? SH

No. Not anymore. JW

Good job that I never acted on any feelings of my own. How inappropriate that would have been. SH  
Was she in the ship with you? SH

[Delayed] Pardon? Feelings of your own? JW  
Does it matter? She's dead, Sherlock. JW

It does not matter, no. I was only curious. SH

Back to the topic of your feelings. JW

It is not a topic. SH

You made it a topic, and I'm deeply curious. What did you mean by 'inappropriate'? JW

I made a flippant remark and you turned it into a topic when there is no need for it to be so. SH

[Delayed] We're not done with that conversation, Sherlock. Certainly not done with that. JW

I am done with that. SH

[Long Delay] She was in the ship. JW  
To answer your question. JW

Your son is the one missing, then. SH

[Long Delay] Hm. JW

I do not know what that means. SH

Yes. JW  
It means yes. JW

You should probably be out searching. SH

He could be on the other side of the globe for all I know. I suspect a nasty head injury gave him severe retrograde amnesia, but the crash was pretty horrific. Debris was strewn over a field for miles on end. JW

You won't find him in Baker Street, that is for sure. SH

[Delayed] I know for _certain_ he's alive. But, leave it. I gave up searching for him years ago. JW

How's that? Some alien technique? SH

A link. JW

But not mere human intuition. SH

No. A biological, mental link. It's not a pinpoint accuracy locator, but I _know_ he's alive. JW

Well, good. Congratulations. As I said, you will not find him in Baker Street. SH

And, as I said, I've given up searching for him. JW  
And we're not here to chat about my son. JW

You're right. I rather despise children, anyway, although he is probably my age or older. SH

He's about your age. Looks like a kid in his early twenties. JW  
Anyway, enough of that. JW

Yes, I agree. Enough. SH

[Delayed] Seriously, come home tonight. I've been craving Angelo's, and he only gives it for free if you're there. JW

I will call him and tell him to give it to you. SH

No. JW

You could just get carryout. He won't know any better. SH

Come. Home. JW  
[Delayed] You do realise that this is hurting me as well, right? JW

No, I don't. SH  
How long have you been on earth? SH

Long enough to serve in Afghanistan. JW

That is a horrible answer. SH

Good. We can talk about it over dinner. JW

My _sincerest_ apologies. I cannot seem to make dinner this evening. I have a case. SH  
The murderer is an illegal alien. SH  
Ha. SH

[Long Delay] You're referring to a human whose visa is expired, correct? JW

Yes, John. SH

[Delayed] Was that a poor attempt at humor? JW

It was. SH

Have I just witnessed the impossible? JW

Obviously it is not impossible. Improbably, yes, but not impossible. SH

Angelo's beforehand? JW

Obviously you are not going to stop hounding me until I acquiesce. SH  
I will go, but I do not wish to eat. You know I do not eat while on cases. You may. SH

Excellent. Food, and wine. If you're not going to eat, have a drink. I'm shouting. JW

Why are you shouting? SH

No, no. It's a phrase. A saying. I'm going to _buy_ you a drink, Sherlock. JW  
I believe this is what 'friends' do on Earth. JW

Oh, don't act like you don't know what they do. It's not as if you haven't got any. SH

[Delayed] Shut up and let me buy you a drink. JW

I do not often drink. _You_ may drink. SH

You don't often drink, but tonight, you'll have one. For me. For _us._ JW

I will have a glass of water. SH

With wine. JW

What is the significance of wine? SH  
What, if we both drink wine we will put the last three weeks behind us? SH  
We will put my absolute ignorance about all of this behind us? SH

[Delayed] It's not about the wine, it's about the occasion. You and me trying to move on. Having a good time before the case. Is that honestly so hard to wrap your head around? JW  
You're fixated on the idea that I think it's 'hilarious' that you got it wrong. I don't _care_ , Sherlock. I'm not judging you. JW  
And _technically,_ you were getting close to the truth. You knew I spent far too long in the bathroom to 'shave'. You knew there had always been something a little 'off' about me. JW

What _were_ you doing in there? SH

[Delayed] Does it matter? JW

You may as well tell me. SH

Contacts. I need to take them out, make sure they're clean. That, and a few other things. JW  
Must 'keep up appearances'. JW

You had a tail. SH  
And fur. And scales. SH  
Did I miss any feathers? SH

Had? I still _have._ Hasn't bloody gone anywhere. I strap the bloody thing to my leg. JW  
I keep the superficial features suppressed with a compound I formulated. Daily injection. JW  
No feathers. I'm not a sodding chicken. JW

[Delayed] A compound you formulated. I see. SH

Yes. Doesn't take away the major anatomical differences, but it does hide the scales and fur. JW

What else is there? SH

What do you mean, 'what' else? Is the tail not enough? JW

It looked like a dog's. Or one of those long-haired cats. Quite strange, really. SH  
As I said before, you may as well tell me the other things. SH

[Delayed] I'll have you know, where _I'm_ from, it's one of my better, more prized features. JW  
There's not really a great deal else to say. I'm not human. Obviously, there's going to be differences. JW

Is that so. Why is it more prized? SH

[Delayed] Why is being 'muscular' more prized over being more lean? It just is. JW

What a vague answer. SH  
In fact, it was so vague that it _wasn't_ an answer. It was a question. You answered my question with a question. SH

But I answered it in a way that made sense. JW  
You lot compare sizes of your reproductive organs. I suppose it's a similar concept. JW

I don't compare sizes. SH

Not _you_. JW

So it is for mating. SH

But others. Most males. JW  
Mating? Oh, no. We're not talking about mating. JW  
I mean, we're not talking about reproductive anatomy for Christ's sake. JW

Male peacocks use their tails to attract females. SH

Brilliant. Did you Google that? JW

No. I read it on a zoo placard. SH  
What else is different about you? SH

Not much. That's mostly it. Now, we were going for Angelo's, yes? JW

Only because you insist upon having a glass of wine. SH

[Delayed] Excellent. JW

You could get wine from the off-license. SH

We're drinking wine _together._ JW

You are going to tamper with it. SH  
Water won't mask the taste. Wine will. SH

[Delayed] Oh, for sod's sake. JW  
No. I am not going to tamper with the wine, knock you out, have my way with you and make you carry my offspring. JW  
Although, the thought is tempting. JW  
[Delayed] _Kidding._ JW

Oh, no. I already said that it was a good thing I had not acted upon my feelings. I am not taking that back. SH

[Long Delay] I'm going to ask you a question and I want you answer it honestly. No matter how awkward. JW  
Are you attracted to me? JW

Perhaps I should answer your question with a question, hmm? SH  
Or maybe this one? SH  
How about this one? SH

Yes, or no. It's that simple. JW

When have you ever known me to be attracted to people, John? SH

[Delayed] You already admitted to having feelings. I suppose you've already answered the question. JW

Mm. I have, haven't I? How silly of me. SH

You lot are so finicky about _gender_ for Christ's sake. JW  
I am, to you. By the way. JW  
See? Not so bloody hard. JW

What are you going on about? I never once mentioned your gender. SH  
And you are what? Finicky? Believe me, I know. SH

No. It's got to be a man and a woman. You can't have two men, or two women. _Strange._ JW

There are millions of homosexual relationships in existence at this very moment. SH

Yes, but that doesn't mean everyone is _okay_ with it. JW

Not everyone is okay with everything. Not everyone is ever going to be okay with everything. SH  
I do not care about one's gender. However, I do seem to have always preferred the company of men. I imagine it is because women, on average, tend to be more emotional. Or, at least, they have been conditioned to be more expressive about it. SH

[Delayed] On _my_ planet, gender is merely a biological state. You're either one or the other, but you're essentially one in the same. JW

That does seem to be a simpler way of living. No expectations. Only anatomy. SH

Does make it rather bothersome when it comes to starting a family though. JW

Why? SH

Ah, long story. Boring anatomical things. Not important. JW

So 'you lot' are male or female, but it is not as simple as the male impregnating the female. SH

I'm _male_. JW

I meant 'you lot' as a whole. Not _you._ SH

Ah. Yes, right. JW

I would say that I wish to learn more about it, but I don't. SH  
Biology has never been my primary area of interest, particularly reproductive biology. SH

[Delayed] Excellent. I suppose it's a particular aspect of my biology that I'd rather you not know about in great detail. JW

Well, now I do wish to know. SH

You just said you didn't want to know! JW

I changed my mind about it. SH

There's not really much I _can_ tell you. JW  
I'm male. My wife was female. JW  
There's two genders. Anything else? JW

You have a penis? Testicles? SH

[Long Delay] And I'm loving this conversation already. JW  
Yes. Yes. JW

Then what is so different? The shape? SH

No. My _equipment_ is all normal. JW  
[Long Delay] I have something almost equivalent to a... Pouch. JW

A what? SH

Similar to a marsupial. JW

Oh. That sounds unpleasant. SH

[Delayed] It's really just a faint, small opening below my sternum. Barely noticeable. JW

And you carry offspring in it? SH

[Long Delay] Once it leaves the female after 24 days of gestation. JW

So it is a shared process between the two of you. How romantic. SH

 _Shut up_. JW

How long is the gestational period? SH

Six months. JW

Mm. I would say she gets the better end of the deal. SH

[Delayed] It's a shared bonding process. The female creates life, the male nurtures it. JW

Yes. As I said: how romantic. SH

Your sarcasm is noted. JW

There is plenty of it. SH

So. Dinner. What time? Seven? Six? JW

Eight. Nine. SH

Probably nine. My stakeout is set to begin at ten, you see. SH

[Delayed] Perfect. Eight sounds excellent. JW

Perhaps I will have a bite or two off yours. My transport does need a bit of fuel. SH

I'll order you your own. You're starting to look a bit on the unnecessarily skinny side. JW

You've not seen me for three weeks. SH

I haven't had the need to. Mycroft said you don't eat, and you're certainly not eating the food at the flat. JW

Don't talk to my brother. I despise the fact that you two have your little gossip sessions. SH

He's actually not _terrible_ company. Despite being a narcissistic, overbearing dictator. JW

Of course he is terrible company. He only seems not-terrible to you because he is an excellent actor. M

[Delayed] Do me a favor, and dress nicely. Might as well make a nice evening out of it. JW

Why do I have to dress nicely? It's Angelo's. We don't even pay for the food. SH

Just, let's make something out of it. This is the most honest we've been since we've known each other. Wear a suit. JW

I think I would prefer we go back to lying. SH  
I always wear suits. SH

[Delayed] Yes, you do. Fair point. JW  
Oh, so you want to pretend I'm human? Fine. Works for me. JW

It is too late now. Merely one of those thoughts that is wishful thinking. SH

[Delayed] You _wanted_ to know the details. You wanted me to be upfront and honest. If you didn't want to know, you shouldn't have asked! JW

Yes. On second thought, I decided that I did not wish to be even more clueless than I already was. SH

So, when you return back to Baker Street, you have a choice. I can either be open about this, or we can go back to the way things were. I don't mind. JW

Open. SH

You _want_ be open about this? JW

You're certain? JW

Either way, I already know. SH

Ignoring it will not change anything. SH

 _Exactly_. Ignoring isn't healthy, so therefore - honesty is going to help us more forward. JW

Shall I be honest, then? SH

[Delayed] _Please_. JW

Honestly, I feel like a right idiot. I feel like I have been taken in. I feel like I have been used by you. I feel like I trusted you blindly even though I knew there was something off about you. I feel like I am nowhere near as intelligent as I was. For all my lectures, for all my telling you and everyone else, 'you see but you do not observe', I have done the exact same thing. I am _ordinary._ SH  
I feel like less of a man, less of a detective, less of a person. Bloody hell, I even feel like less of a chemist. You whipped up a compound to keep your fur and scales suppressed. I would not even begin to have an idea of knowing how to do that. SH  
You know about an entire planet that I know, virtually, nothing about and never will. You had a wife whom you loved and had a child with, and then there is me, the man who always wondered _what_ it was that was off about you but immediately told himself, 'no, no, this is John; John wouldn't keep anything from you'. SH  
Seeing you is only going to make me feel like an even bigger idiot. I am going to stare at the man who has lied to me and be reminded of not only that fact, but the fact that I couldn't figure it out for myself, the fact that all that I see is not all that there is, the fact that I am merely one of seven billion humans with whom you happened upon, and that I only ever _did_ find out the truth on accident. SH  
That is how I feel. Honestly. SH  
Oh, and of course I cannot ignore the obvious humiliation that came from admitting my feelings, particularly after discovering that you already had a _family._ That was unpleasant. _Honestly_. SH

[Long Delay] You are the most brilliant, human being I have ever had the privilege and the pleasure to know, Sherlock. Before I met you, I wasn't moving forward. I was _stuck._ You pulled me out of a rut that I'd been stuck in for years, and when I met you, I had hope that things would be _better._ Yes, I lied. I lied, and it was the worst thing I could have possibly done. I should have told you. After all, the truth will set you free, right? JW  
You are noless of a man because you didn't figure this out. You didn't know, because I _hid_ it from you. Yes, we met purely by chance, but isn't that what life is all about? If my ship had never been attacked, I'd be back on my own planet. My family would be alive, but life didn't work out that way. I lost my family, and I met you. And you gave me a reason to live again. JW  
I had a family because given my age and given my species, it would be incredible if I didn't. Yes, my son is out there. Yes, I _miss_ him. I carried him for six months, and raised him to be a _good_ person. But he is out there, missing. Gone. And whilst I miss him terribly, I care for you and I've developed feelings for you. Strong feelings. Dare I say it, a _bond_. JW

[Delayed] Thank you. SH

Pardon? JW

I did not know what else to say, so I settled for something polite. Thought I'd give it a try. SH

[Long Delay] That bond I spoke about before. The biological one. JW  
It shouldn't be able to cross species. As far as I'm aware, it never has. JW

It's not real. SH

The bond? JW  
It's a _biological_ connection, Sherlock. JW

Between one of us. SH

At this point, it's from me to you. Yes. JW

Yes. I don't feel it. Therefore, this sentimental, shocking conclusion that you have come to means absolutely nothing to me. SH

[Delayed] Do you not see the significance? This isn't just about us being 'friends'. JW  
This 'bond' doesn't just develop because we 'live' together and drink tea together. I shared it with my wife. I share it with my _son._ JW

Both of whom you lived with and drank tea with, I would imagine. SH

We don't _have_ tea where I'm from. And no, not for that reason. JW

No tea, of course. I suppose that should have been obvious. SH

[Long Delay] I should never have lied, but that's water under the bridge at this point. We'll mend things. Move on from here. JW

No. No, you should not have. SH  
Water under the bridge, of course. SH

[Delayed] So, are we good? JW

It's all fine. SH

 _Excellent_. JW

Bring your gun tonight. SH

[Delayed] I thought you said this was just about an 'illegal alien'? JW  
Aren't we just apprehending him? Or her? JW

We need to catch him, first. SH

But surely the aim _isn't_ to put a bullet in his brain. JW

Obviously not. However, he will have a gun. It stands to reason that we should have one, too. SH

[Delayed] Fine. But as I said, let's enjoy a nice dinner _with_ wine before we decide to start shooting illegal immigrants. JW

Really, since when have you been so hell-bent on _wine_? SH

I _need_ a drink. These past few weeks have been emotionally taxing, to say the least. JW

Fine. Drink your wine. SH

[Delayed] Brilliant. So, will you be spending the night at the flat? JW

Maybe. Maybe we will be busy all night chasing after a deranged lunatic. SH

After of which, you will return back to the flat. Your room is the way you left it. JW

I do not care to be bossed about, John. SH

Fine. Would you _please_ return back to the flat after we finish up with our case? JW  
[Delayed] I'll give you a vial of that compound so you can analyze it if you do. JW

I do not wish to analyze it. SH  
Why are you in such a bloody hurry for me to return? Are alien-hunters after you? SH

No. The flat is lonely. I miss you. JW

I'm sure Harry would be more than happy to come over. SH  
Or Mike Stamford. SH

 _Sherlock_. JW

Yes? SH

Stop dancing around the fact that we've both admitted that we share a physical and emotional attraction. JW

Shared, John. Do get your tenses right. SH

 _Share_. JW  
Present tense. JW

Oh, well. Perhaps this is just another thing that I am mistaken about. SH

We _just_ spoke about this! JW

Yes. Yes, we did. SH  
Perhaps I am not playing fair. SH

No, you're not! For Christ's sake, we are being _honest_. Why are you finding it so hard to be _open_ about how you feel? JW

Because that is not who I am. SH

But things have _changed_. JW

That would make it easier for you, yes. SH

[Delayed] Fine. See you tonight. JW

What time did we say? Nine thirty? SH

No. Earlier. Dinner, remember? JW  
Or, did you just want to forgo the whole thing? JW

Yes. Dinner at nine-thirty. Case at ten. SH

That's what you'd prefer, right? JW

I'm sorry, am I allowed to have an opinion, now? SH

You either have feelings, or you don't. I've practically out-poured my most intimate secrets onto you, and yet - you still shy away. If you want to remain strictly friends, fine. I'm _fine_ with that. JW

You never before mentioned anything to me about having feelings. You are the one who always insisted that he was 'not gay'. Now that we are having difficulties, you suddenly share that you have experienced this magical, alien _bond._ SH

 _Only_ because I saw how uncomfortable the accusations made you! The bond is _real_. I can't just turn it off! JW

You consider me a part of your family. SH

You _are_ a part of my family. JW

And I became that way through us living and drinking tea together. SH

You're over complicating this. I have feelings. You have feelings. Surprise, we both give a damn about each other! JW

Perhaps I am over complicating things. I do have a tendency to do that. Over-complicating and over-thinking. SH

You are, and it's fine. It's what you do. JW

We should stop discussing this, don't you agree? SH

[Delayed] Agreed. JW

Are you wearing a suit as well? SH

Oh, is the dinner still on? JW

I had thought so. SH

Yes. I will. JW

Although running around London, in suits, after eating and drinking may not be your wisest decision. SH

[Delayed] I'm sure we've made far worse decisions in the past. JW

Like what? SH

When I think of an example, I'll let you know. JW

That is very encouraging, John. Thank you. SH

You're welcome. JW

He is at the zoo, supposedly. SH

[Delayed] The zoo? Hiding out amongst the zebras, is he? JW

No. The flamingos. SH

Hilarious. Is he wearing pink? JW

Yes, and standing on stilts. SH

Are you taking the piss? JW

Obviously, John. SH

Ah. JW  
[Long Delay] Mycroft can track down anyone, can't he? JW

Generally so, yes. SH

Right, yes. Of course. JW

Just give me his name. SH

[Delayed] He might not have kept it. With amnesia, I doubt it. JW

Then give me his appearance. SH

[Delayed] My height, although I suppose a bit taller. Took after his mother, really. Looks to be in his early twenties; bit of a smart arse at times, but a good kid. His fur and scales hadn't come through yet, and won't do for another few years at least. The tail would be hairless, and his eyes would be a defining blue. JW

Hairless? Like a rat. SH  
That does not really help. Name? Just in case he still uses it. SH

A _rat?_ No, Sherlock. He's not a rodent. He's my son. JW  
Stevran. The shortened version, but he always preferred that. JW

I said _like_ a rat. SH  
I will look. Or, more accurately, I will have Mycroft look. SH

[Delayed] If you do find him, don't contact him. JW

I will give you his contact information. SH

[Delayed] Fine. JW

[6:47PM] [Contact No. Included.]  
I suppose we will have to wait on dinner. SH

[Long Delay] You found him. JW

You actually located him? Or should I say, Mycroft did? JW

Mycroft, of course. SH

What do you know? JW

I know that I just texted you his mobile phone number. SH

No. What do you know about him? What did you find out? JW

Mycroft did it. Not me. SH

But he would have told you _something._ He wouldn't have just handed you a number. JW  
Something, Sherlock. Just tell me _something._ JW

He lives in Whitechapel. SH  
He's got a family. SH

[Long Delay] You mean, he's got a girlfriend? JW

No. I mean he's living with his 'parents' and sisters. He's getting his medical degree. Like father, like son. SH

[Long Delay] And otherwise, he's healthy? No criminal record? JW

A bit of hacking. SH  
Nothing too malicious. SH

Typical. He's got a very good analytical mind, that one. JW  
So, he's happy. He's well, and he's happy. Christ, I think I need to sit down. JW

He seems to be thriving, yes. Apparently he wishes to be a plastic surgeon. SH  
To help others with deformities. I assume he means his tail. SH

He wants to _remove_ his tail. JW

I imagine he does not know the significance of it. You said he may have amnesia. He does not go by Stevran; he goes by Steven. It was probably as close as he could remember. SH

He might have amnesia but _surely_ he must know that he's not like his 'family' and friends. And he hasn't even gone through his change yet - he probably doesn't know what's going to hit him in the next year or so. JW

You would do well to warn him, then. SH

[Delayed] That's if I'm going to get in contact with him. JW  
As you said, he's thriving. JW

I imagine growing fur and scales would put an abrupt stop to that. SH  
At least, if it happens without any explanation. SH

[Delayed] It's essentially the equivalent to puberty. Not a brilliant time. JW  
It's been _years._ I can't just walk back into his life. JW

Just go, John. SH

[Long Delay] I want you with me. JW

Don't be stupid. SH

Please JW

 _Why?_ SH

I don't even know if I want to _talk_ to him, Sherlock. JW  
I just want to go, see if he's okay. Scope out the situation, and _maybe_ talk to him. I don't honestly know. JW

You know he is okay. I just told you that he is. SH  
You want to go and talk to him. Interact with him. SH

Like I said, I want you with me. JW

I have nothing to offer you. Nothing. SH  
Take Harry. She knows much more about you than I do. SH

I want you there. For Christ's sake, I would really prefer it if you came with me. JW  
Do you want me to beg? JW

No, I want you to stop asking me and go and ask Harry. SH

Sherlock, _please_! JW

Tell me _why_. A real _reason_. SH

I. Need. You. There. JW  
[Delayed] I can't do this without you. And what happens if we start talking, and he starts to remember? What then? JW  
What the hell am I going to do? JW

Lie to him. Should be easy enough. SH

Come with me, and I will owe you a _massive_ favour. Whatever you want. JW

[Delayed] Fine, John. Fine. I will come with you, despite the fact that you have no reason for wanting me there. SH  
And I do not need a favour. There is nothing I want from you. SH

[Delayed] You are good company. You can read people as you can a book. JW

Apparently I cannot. SH  
At least I know this one's an alien. I've got an advantage already. SH

[Delayed] Did you see him? A photo, I mean? JW

Yes. SH

And? JW

And what? He looks like he's in his twenties. Blue eyes. Straight hair. SH

[Delayed] Family resemblance? JW

He's not got your nose. SH  
Or those bags beneath your eyes, although it is too soon to tell, I would imagine. SH  
The same jaw and chin, I think. SH

Bloody sod never used to sleep. Even as a baby, couldn't get that thing to close his eyes for five minutes. It won't be surprising if he does get those bloody bags beneath his eyes. JW

Are babies not infamous for not sleeping? SH

Well, they _are_. Ours though, generally more behaved. JW

Apparently yours did not get the memo. SH

[Long Delay] You know, had it not been for the crash, he would have had a sister. JW

He's got two. SH

 _Biological_ sister. JW

Close enough. SH

 _Right_. JW

I wouldn't tell him that. SH  
Well. If I were you, I wouldn't. _I_ probably would. SH

He knew at the time, as did my wife. As did I. JW  
Although with amnesia, I assume that's all been wiped. JW

Lucky him, then. He seems close to his adoptive sisters. They are enough for

[Delayed] I'm glad he's happy. He deserves it. JW

Yes. Good for him indeed. He seems fine. SH

[Delayed] Medical school. Good on him; always been a bright kid. JW

There are plenty of idiot doctors. SH

True that, there are. JW

Tomorrow, then. Go to him tomorrow. SH  
Or tonight. SH

We'll go tonight. JW

I do have a murderer to catch. SH

And I have a son to find. JW  
The murderer can wait. JW

Your son is not going anywhere. SH

And yet, I feel this _need_ to go see him. JW

Of course you do. He is your child and you now know where he is. SH  
[Long delay] Fine. Tonight. SH


	2. Chapter 2

To say that John was utterly embarrassed, perplexed, exposed, apprehensive, terrified and utterly relieved would be the ultimate understatement. As calm as he'd seemed in his texts, his trembling hands were a sign that he was anything but. Since he'd taken his lunch break early after summing up enough courage to text his silent flatmate, he'd cancelled all further appointments for the afternoon as he sat in his office, his elbows propped against his desk as tense hands strummed over the touchscreen as he constructed his responses. But he could barely retain his composure, and how could he possibly try?

For in the space of less than three hours, he'd not only explained his most intimate biological and anatomical details (well, not _all_ of them, but most), but he'd discovered that Sherlock **had** feelings for him. Hell, he'd discovered that his son was a medical student _living_ and thriving in Whitechapel. All in all, it had been a fairly productive day, and they still had the night to contend with. He was at his wits end, and even then, he had no idea where to progress from here. He wanted to explore his feelings with Sherlock, but his instincts as a father were practically screaming at him to go seek out his boy and bring him back.

And he was completely, utterly lost as to what path he wanted _or_ needed to take.

 **Meet me at Baker Street in half an hour. We'll catch a cab. Case can wait. JW**

Pocketing his phone, it took him less than five minutes and four seconds to dart out of the clinic with keys and wallet in tow. He felt the telltale strain of the bindings around his leg that kept his tail firmly planted to his right thigh, and rubbed it through the fabric of his trousers as he sat through the ten minute cab ride back to the flat. The whole time, his mind was reeling with the possibilities of how tonight was going to actually go. He was desperate to be _near_ Sherlock, and to strengthen that bond. On the other side, he wanted to just _see_ his son. Hell, it was like something out of a terrible soap opera. Either way, _something_ had to be done. Feelings had to be shared, things had to be explained and life had to be sorted.

Preferably, tonight.

 **I look forward to seeing you. JW**

Sherlock had been lying to John about which Holmes brother located Sevran-Steven. Whatever it was that they were even supposed to refer to him as. Of course Mycroft hadn't been the one to locate him. It would have been incredibly unwise to ask his brother for help, given the fact that there was so much that was, to put it kindly, _odd_ about John's son. Amnesia. No record of birth or hospital visits until he turned sixteen. A missing mother. A tail. They would have all been enough red flags to make Mycroft curious, and when Mycroft got curious, he got answers. That was why Sherlock had found the boy instead. He had told John that it was Mycroft so that he wouldn't go about _thanking_ him, or saying, as he had, that he owed Sherlock a favour.

The only thing Sherlock wanted was a time machine, but as John hadn't used one himself to go back in time and prevent his wife from dying, Sherlock felt it safe to say that even the aliens had not yet accomplished time-travel.

Telling John about his feelings was something that Sherlock had done flippantly and immediately wished that he hadn't. It wasn't a good feeling, knowing that he was coming in third to John's wife and son. That may or may not have been how John saw it; Sherlock didn't know or care. It was how _he_ saw it. Third to them and third to Harry and Mike Stamford. Sherlock couldn't understand why John had just-he couldn't understand why John _hadn't_ told him. What did Harry have to offer that he didn't? Mike found out by accident, John had said-although Sherlock didn't know if he believed that or not-but it didn't make Sherlock feel any better about it. Not at all.

Despite his feelings of foolishness for not deducing what John was, for blindly trusting him, for being one of two who had only found out about him accidentally, for coming in last after his real family, for being bested in both the areas of observation and chemistry, that is, intellect in general, Sherlock pushed all of those insecurities aside. They were still there, but he walked into Baker Street wearing his black suit and shoes, purple shirt, and a look of pure serenity on his face.

"Hello," he greeted John, setting his suitcase down on he table beside his chemistry equipment. Sherlock didn't remove his coat or his scarf; instead, he just slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at the other man. "He is at Fourteen Scarborough Street. I suggest we leave now, before you have the opportunity to talk yourself out of it."

John had spent the past twenty minutes pottering around the flat, making preparations and keeping busy as he waited. He hadn't seen Sherlock for weeks. Three, lonely weeks of returning home from work and eating his dinner in isolation as he stared blankly at crap soaps in the tv; and it hadn't been fun. From time to time, he'd text Harry and they'd share a few highlights about their day, but nothing could stop Harry from seeming to be exceedingly standoffish. Stamford was another 'go to' that John could chat with, but Mike ever _only_ wanted to discuss John's unique anatomical features. And hell, John couldn't blame him. John was an _alien_ and Stamford was a man of medicine and science. The man would tell Mike what he could, but it often tended to get incredibly overwhelming when question after question came funnelling through.

Needless to say, John felt his entire body tense as he heard the typical footsteps of his friend ascend the stairs in the usual, energetic manner that he did. He had his back turned to Sherlock at the time; currently being in the process of patting down his suit trousers to ensure that his tail was firmly strapped down. The bindings had to be uncomfortably tight so it wouldn't protrude against the steam pressed fabric, but he was fortunate in that there wasn't an outline to be seen. And yes, he _was_ wearing a suit. A full, black suit. Not his usual attire but he _had_ promised Sherlock, and it was only fair that he keep his end of the bargain.

"Ah, you're here." He spun around on the spot, almost slipping on the kitchen floor as he staggered back and pressed his lower back against the kitchen counter. A moment passed where he couldn't find the words to say, but his heart felt to soften in his chest as he relished in moment. Sherlock was _back_ , albeit even for a moment. He was looking at John with the knowledge that John wasn't human, and they were finally being honest with each other. Of course it was incredibly awkward, but at _least_ they were moving forward.

"I mean, good. Brilliant. Nice to see you, you're looking... Well." _Shut up, shut up. Stop rambling, shut_ _ **up**_ _._

"Uh, yes. Right. Time to speak to my... Son." He nodded sharply, and crossed his hands over his chest and took a heavy breath. He was being odd, awkward and hewas _well_ aware of that, but it was likely that Sherlock felt the same. "Yes, right." He coughed to clear his throat, but he still couldn't bring himself to leave. Did Sherlock want to leave first? He was starting to overthink these things, and he _hated_ it. "Time we leave. We'll just go see how he is, go to dinner and the case. I, uh - I've got my gun." He tapped his suit jacket, and offered him a smirk. "Mind you, fits in my _other_ jacket a bit better. Can't say I'm keen on wearing a suit but, ah, promises are promises, right?"

Sherlock stared down at John, one eyebrow lifted in curious amusement. It was the way he normally reacted to John, so if he did anything else, now, it would be obvious. He didn't _want_ to be obvious. It was odd to see John in a suit. And for what purpose? To go to Angelo's? They didn't normally wear suits when going to Angelo's. Sherlock did, but he wore them everywhere. John? Rarely. Not only was seeing John in a suit strange, but even more strange was seeing him futz about with his tail. John had always been so careful to make sure that Sherlock didn't find out about it, apparently, and he'd been successful, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Of course it made things more embarrassing, the fact that Sherlock was so goddamn hung up on not having deduced what John was. John was right, though-it would have been impossible for Sherlock to know. Who in their right mind (not that Sherlock was) would think their flatmate had a long, furry tail that they stuffed into their trousers? Really, who?

"You did promise to wear a suit, yes," Sherlock said, slowly nodding his head. "However, I believe we will both look a bit ridiculous. I'm sure he will think that we dressed up only to go and meet him. Have you even thought about what you are going to say? You had best have a good reason to knock on someone's door and demand to speak with them." Sherlock cleared his throat and said, with no decency or tact whatsoever, "Perhaps you should try being truthful with him. I may be wrong, but I do believe people tend to appreciate that."

Sherlock wet his lips. He knew that he needed to stop bringing up John's dishonesty, even though it wasn't in his nature to avoid saying what he thought simply to b kind. Still, nothing would come from him mentioning it again and again, over and over. All that would happen was that he and John would become more frustrated. John seemed to have moved on easily enough. And why wouldn't he? He was the one who had known all along. He was the one who had kept it a secret. He was the one who could trust Sherlock, not the other way around. Not now. If the option came up-however unlikely this was-who would John choose, his son, or Sherlock? Initially John had said that he didn't want to find his son; he had changed his mind only a few minutes later. As far as Sherlock understood it, that was common in parenthood.

"You should stay with him," Sherlock said as he turned to walk back downstairs. "Answer his him what to expect. I can just as easily go to the zoo and find him. Alrik Lundquist is his name. Swedish, late thirties. I do fully intend to ask him why he chose the zoo, of all places, to hide in."

Sherlock was rambling and he knew it. Even so, the words wouldn't stop, not until he was moving down the steps just as quickly as he'd come up them. The cab was still there, waiting for them as Sherlock had instructed, and he gave the driver the address. To meet John's _son._ Jesus.

"I still do not know why I am being forced to come along. I have nothing at all to offer in this little reunion of yours. I will only get in the way."

"We would look a little ridiculous, wouldn't we?" Of _course_ they looked ridiculous; it wasn't as though they were _honestly_ going to go out for wining and dining before the case. John wanted to mentally slap himself for being so foolish, but he assumed that deep down, he was holding out for the inkling that tonight might have been a little bit 'fun', but that had been thrown under a bus when the revelation that his son was alive in _London_ became fact. It had been a spanner thrown into the works and John felt desperate to explore whatever 'feelings' Sherlock might have had for his flatmate, but there was the issue of Stevran, or 'Steven', as he now preferred it. All of this was and had become chaotic; secrets were out, and John felt as though he'd majorly sodded it all up. And now, they still had tonight to get through.

"Truthful." John wasn't an idiot; he knew that was a quip targeted directly at himself, and it was no secret that he deserved it. So Sherlock was still mad, and likely would be for some time. Worse still, he was likely upset and fearful that he was getting pushed back behind Stamford, Harriet, and now - Steven. "Right. Truthful, yes? You don't need to keep bringing it up, Sherlock. I stuffed up. I _screwed_ up." He felt the need to give a halfhearted chuckle, and he brought his hand up to his face as he clenched his eyes shut momentarily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I made a sodding mess of our friendship, and it's a blow to the knees when you find out that I have a _son_ \- your age, might I add - who I plan on bringing back into my life."

 _Right, because that's going to make him feel better_.

"I'm a liar, and a shocking friend. I won't deny that. I'll admit it. I'm a shockingly _terrible_ friend." He ran fingers down his face and let out an ominous groan, and watched Sherlock intensely. "Forget this bloody case for a moment, alright? Let the sod hide amongst the flamingoes; okay? And for the record, I'm not **forcing** you to come with me. I'm asking you, because believe it or not Sherlock, I _need_ you there. Do you understand that? I **need** you."

 _Oh boy, here we go._

"This has all been a total cock-up and it's my fault. Okay? I accept that." He rasped. "I didn't even expect Mycroft to track down my son. I didn't think it possible, and now that he has - I'm stuck. I don't know what to do, because if I invite him back into _my_ life, he's going to be in _our_ lives. And before you say 'but I won't be here, because you have him' - **shut up**." He poised a finger high to ensure that Sherlock remained quiet during his rant. "I have _feelings_ for you. This 'bond' that I keep bringing up is a _big deal_ ; it's permanent. I enjoy your company. I enjoy solving crimes with you. I hate the way you store fingers in the sink but hell, it's for science, right? And I respect that." He swallowed thickly, his heart starting to race. "You are _not_ going to be replaced. My secrets are now your own, and I promise to be as upfront with you as I can. No more hiding, no more lies. Understand?"

He hadn't even realised that he'd been ranting from the journey in the flat, and all the way down into the cab. But as the cab rolled into life, John had both of his hands tightly clasped around Sherlock's own. "Love. That's what the bond is, yes? As corny as that sounds, that's what it is."

"And I _need_ you to understand that."

 _Focus,_ Sherlock told himself. He knew he couldn't let himself get swept away into John's sudden onslaught of emotion. This silly little 'bond' that he kept bringing up; Sherlock didn't even believe in it. He believed in the validity between aliens and other aliens-family members, sexual partners-but the fact that John had just suddenly mentioned it after Sherlock revealing that he had feelings for John, no. It was too convenient. It was a simple way for John to get what he wanted from him. A manipulative tactic and nothing more.

Christ. Was that why he suddenly felt so self-conscious, so vulnerable? So _stupid_? Was John manipulating him? Was that even possible? It sounded possible. Sherlock, admittedly, knew very little about John's race, and he knew even less about the imaginary races found in science-fiction films and books (he had no interest in learning about them, either; he only cared about the facts-that hadn't changed). And it _was_ suspicious that John kept insisting that he drink wine, wasn't it? Either that or it was just Sherlock being...paranoid, of all things. He was Sherlock Holmes. He relied on facts and figures, not fears and fables. He wasn't supposed to get paranoid. Not about anything. And yet, here he was.

'I'm a liar, and a shocking friend. I won't deny that. I'll admit it. I'm a shockingly _terrible_ friend.' Sherlock could not have said it better. John was the only person that he had ever opened up to, the only person whom he had ever considered to be his friend, and then he came to discover that John wasn't even who he said he was. As a matter of fact, he had lied about more than he had told the truth about. He was a doctor in the army. There was that. But Harry? She was a lie. She wasn't his sister; she was just someone he knew, someone he had opened up to. If John developed a bond with anything, it would have been her, not Sherlock. Having a wife, formerly, having a _son_. It was so much for Sherlock to wrap his head around and, even though it rarely happened, he was struggling with it.

"Obviously I do not understand why you need me there," Sherlock said simply. "Seeing as how there is very little that I will be able to do for you, it makes no sense at all. I cannot tell him anything about you or your species. I cannot provide emotional support to you. All I will be doing is standing there.

"And for the record, John, you are not _stuck_. There is nobody holding a gun to your head and forcing you to go and meet your child. You want to. It is what people do. Whether he is in _your_ life or not-not ours, John, _yours_ -will remain to be seen. As I told you, he already has a family. Sisters. A mother and father. Probably a girlfriend. Friends. Perhaps even a _pet_. I am sure he will not deny the opportunity to meet with you and talk with you, have you in his life to some degree, but it is not as if he is going to want to suddenly move in with you."

Sherlock seemed to not notice John's hands around his own until the other man-or whatever the hell he was; the _alien_ -noticed. Sherlock moved his fingers, wrapping them around John's hands just because he wanted to see how it felt, physically. There was an uncomfortable in his tightness that rose up into his throat, and Sherlock knew it wasn't supposed to be there. It wasn't excitement, or glee. It was-something else. Something unpleasant. But, Sherlock took a moment and just focused on the feeling of John's hands. It was something he had always wanted to feel before and now he did it, just out of curiosity.

And then he pulled his hands away.

"I have already told you how I feel about this 'bond', John. I do not feel it, therefore it means nothing to me. It is _not_ a big deal. Not to me. Not anymore."

Sherlock turned his head and glanced out the window. They were driving past St. George's German Lutheran Church, which meant they were less than five minutes away from Scarborough Street. Less than five minutes away from John's son.

"I would suggest you use these final moments to come up with a good opening line. As they say, you make one first impression. Make it a good one."


	3. Chapter 3

Bloody hell, that sod could be stubborn. A moment of physical contact and he shut up, and John was _certain_ that he could feel it. He even felt fingers loop tightly around his own as Sherlock explored the concept of _connecting_ with another individual. Sherlock may have passed off this 'bond' as a stupid fad that John's species obsessed over, but what he didn't realise was that this _bond_ was a biochemical connection that John had made in absence of his own wife. In a normal situation, a lifelong bond would be forged between between a husband and wife, and any subsequent children that followed. In the morbidly terrible situation where a bond was severed due to death, a depressing absence would _always_ be felt by those who had lost a loved one. It was rare enough for that hole to be filled (innuendo aside), but to John's knowledge it could **never** be shared with that of another species. Least of which, a species who remained so unaware of their true mental potential which would _one day_ develop, but in time. But so it happened, that Sherlock had filled that gap, and that bond was stronger than ever.

"I'm sorry you feel that way." He let his hands fall to his lap, and tired eyes watched over Sherlock in pure frustration. This wasn't going to work if Sherlock didn't want to participate, and despite John's dire plea to Sherlock after presenting his case, it was futile. It was _useless_. He was utterly convinced that John was going to palm him off after he returned to his duties as a father, and it felt as though no more chatter could convince him otherwise.

"Stop the cab."

He was but five minutes away from his location, but he couldn't do it. He needed Sherlock, but if Sherlock saw this is as the beginning of the end, then John wouldn't do it. No matter how much he needed this, he couldn't. He even considered it to be selfish on Sherlock's part, but the man had to mentally remind himself that it was _he_ who lied, and it was _he_ who must suffer the consequences. Sherlock had done nothing but be concerned, and could John blame him? No. After all, he was only human.

"I'm an idiot." He whispered beneath his breath, and clutched the handle of the door as the vehicle ground to a halt. "You're right. As per usual, you're absolutely right!" A chuckle, followed by a morbid bout of laughter that almost had him in stitches. "He's got a family, he's happy. He's going to be a doctor for Christ's sake!" He scoffed, and rubbed clenched hands in both eyes to stave off the hidden tears that he refused to let fall. "So how **dare** I interrupt all that for the sake of satisfying my own need to atone for my own mistakes. How _dare_ I drag you into this, because clearly it's you or my son, right? Clearly, you can't possibly be a part of 'my' life. _Clearly_ , you don't understand." He shoved the door open, and unclasped his seatbelt as he stepped outside and kept the door held open for a moment longer.

"For once in your life, stop trying to make this all about **you**." He breathed, the hidden tears starting to sting at his eyes. "I genuinely wanted to have dinner with you tonight. I wanted you to come back to the flat. I wanted us to enjoy a case at some point, but I wanted you to take part in this because I _love_ you." He paused. "And I wanted us both to share in this because **you** are my family, and so is he. But sod this." John frowned. "I won't throw this burden on you. I won't try to make you do something you're not comfortable with. Go back to Mycroft's. Go solve that case. Tell the authorities about me, I don't _care_."

In a flurry of movement, he slammed the door closed and began storming down the street with hands in pockets. To think this would have actually worked out made him feel naive and foolish, but this _was_ Sherlock Holmes. To convince a brick wall to tag along would have been far, far easier and they would have been far more compliant.

"I wish you weren't such a sodding stubborn git." He sighed softly, his head shaking slowly from side to side as he walked.

Sherlock wondered if this was, now, all John's attempt at trying to guilt him into doing what he wanted. John was clearly passionate about finding his son, and even involving the boy-the man-in his life. Their life, according to John. Oh, and it was all _his_ fault, was it? Clearly John had done _nothing_ wrong. _Clearly_ it was all because of Sherlock that they were having these problems.

Sherlock would be the first to admit that he was selfish. He was a right bastard, cold-hearted, cruel, self-absorbed, arrogant, rude. And yet, this time, he felt that those things were all perfectly natural. He felt entitled to them. Justified. John expected him to just get over two years of lies immediately. Three weeks was not enough time. It was enough time for Sherlock to act like he was-well, no, apparently it wasn't. If it had been, they wouldn't be struggling like they were now.

John got out of the cab and Sherlock remained sitting in it. He had to think, just for a moment. If they didn't go and meet Steven now, John would regret it. Granted, he may also regret it if they did go, but they wouldn't know for sure unless they went. It went against every fibre of Sherlock's being, but he tossed the cab driver a tenner and then got out of the car, following after John. They were both hurting, obviously. They were both struggling with the enormous wedge that had been put in their friendship-by John, Sherlock immediately thought, but then he scolded himself for placing blame once more-and neither knew how to fix it.

What options did they have? They could both keep their feelings bottled up. That was what Sherlock had done his entire life. He repressed his emotions until it had become second-nature to him, to the point that it seemed he didn't even have any. That was how Mycroft was and Sherlock, as a young boy, had wanted to be exactly like his 'big brother'. Now that he had his work, he wanted to focus on it. He _had_ done so until John had come into the picture. He still remembered telling John, their first night together at Angelo's, 'I consider myself married to my work.' It had taken over a year for Sherlock to realise that the cases weren't all he valued in his work anymore-he also valued his associate, his assistant, his blogger. More than he should have.

"John," Sherlock called, taking a few long strides in order to catch up with the other. "John, _stop_. You are being just as selfish and just as dramatic as myself right now, and I will not have you blaming it all on me. I think you can admit that this behaviour-from _both_ of us-is doing us no favours. Now, we are going to go and meet your son, get it _over_ with, and then we can take the next step, no?" He paused, lifting his hands in a shrug of surrender. "Whatever that even is."

Sherlock turned his back and started to talk away from John, in the direction of Steven's home. "I am going with or without you," he told John. "I suspect you would prefer to be there with me when I tell him he's an alien, but, what do I know."

There was no doubt that this was difficult for the both of them. It would take time, Sherlock felt. They would both need time to accept the facts of the situation. John would need time to understand how hurt Sherlock was by it, how damn stupid he felt, and Sherlock would need time to accept that John was just...John. And that what had happened had already happened; carrying it around with him would do neither of them any favours. The only way to move forward was to forgive and forget.

Sherlock had never been good at that.

Why wasn't he leaving? Sherlock _should_ have taken this as an opportunity to turn the cab around so he could head home, and he could thus spend the rest of the evening playing the violin in the comforts of Mycroft's affluent lodgings. John tensed considerably as a hand wrapped around his shoulder and brought him to a stop, and in moments Sherlock was standing before John, blocking his path. It was fair to say that John likely appeared to be an emotional wreck; tears were glistening behind his eyes, and his cheeks were red from the embarrassment of having to pour out his heart onto his unsuspecting friend in the cab. He'd certainly had better days. Both of them had.

But Sherlock was stepping up to the challenge of moving _forward_. The next few days, weeks, months and possibly years were certainly going to be daunting, to say the least. Frustrations from John's stacking lies would likely come out from time to time, but emotions were going to be raging from here on in. And as per usual, Sherlock was right. The pair of them were both being selfish and overly dramatic. With or without John, Sherlock was going to see John's son; only made sense that the child's own _father_ accompanied the detective along for the ride.

"Alright."

He slumped his shoulders as he turned heel and followed Sherlock, albeit incredibly reluctantly. He was nervous; he was _terrified_. He only found strength in the fact that Sherlock was at his side, essentially forcing him to face his fears; ironic though, considering that only a short while ago, _he_ was the one who had been doing the convincing. "You're right. I apologise." He nodded sharply, and quickened his pace until he was walking side by side with Sherlock, his eyes scanning the empty streets as they walked. The weather was chilly and the sky was clear, but the streets were rather vacant; likely due to the fact that the roads were leading into far more residential areas as they strolled on through.

"We scope out the situation first. Nobody says _anything_ , and we have to make sure that we speak to him **alone**." He rummaged his fingers through his hair, and trailed fingertips down his face as he groaned softly in defeat. "He's always been a tough little thing, even since he was a little sprog. Until we find out just how bad his amnesia is, we won't know how bloody resistant he'll be to the truth."

 _Sod it; if he's anything like me these days, it's not going to be fun._

"About what I said - what I've been _saying_ about... Look, the last thing I wanted to do was make it awkward between us." He side-glanced at Sherlock, but kept his eyes on the footpath. "You've got to understand though, I **miss** you. The flat isn't the same without you. I mean, for Christ's sake - it's too _clean_. Your little holiday away has given Mrs. Hudson the opportunity to do some proper dusting and if I'm to be honest, it's a little unnerving to actually see the polished surface of the coffee table. A bit of filth never hurt-" John hadn't even been given the chance to finish his sentence, for he'd walked straight into an innocent bystander who had happened to be standing by the bus stop. But it served John right for not looking as to where he was going.

"Oh, _sod_." John scrambled to pick himself up from the floor, and he extended a hand out to the fellow who he'd barrelled into. "Bloody hell, my fault mate. Absolutely my fault. Here, let me grab your bag for you." He bent down to grab the shoulder bag (likely containing a laptop and what _felt_ like the weight of a textbook) to assist the light, fair-haired stranger, who still currently had his head down as he reached around to grab his phone, wallet and keys. "You alright?"

"Peak hour foot traffic in London." The man, clearly in his early twenties based on his slight lankiness and a slight youthfulness to his voice, still glanced down as he rummaged around for a few pens he'd dropped. "I'm used to it. Trust me, it's all fine." He chuckled, a grin appearing to form on his face as he pushed himself quickly to his feet with a small burst of energy. As blue eyes curiously glanced at John's own, he reached out to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder and reached out to gently grab his satchel from John's grasp. "I needed some excitement anyhow. Bus is twenty minutes late, so I'm late for my Pathophysiology lecture. You did me a solid mate, trust me." The young man's eyes were kind and his smile sincere as he chuckled softly to himself, and from time to time he'd run his fingers through his straight but slightly unkempt hair as he casually had a one-sided conversation with John. "Hey, are you alright? Look like you've seen a bloody ghost - you haven't been on the Tower of London tour, have you?" He scoffed. "Perhaps _that's_ where I've seen you. You look terribly familiar, if I'm to be blunt."

John, however, couldn't bring himself to properly interact. He couldn't even move; he was in _shock_. "Stev-" He paused, and shut his mouth. _Try this again_.

" _Steven_?"

The stranger - Steven - paused, with eyebrows raised. "That... Would be me. So we have met? Wait, wait - let me guess. Med-Ball last year? You're one of the blokes who works at the University, right?" He energetically jumped on the spot, but frowned. "No, no. That's someone else. Right, right - give me a moment. You-" He suddenly paused, his eyes hovering over to John's accomplice. "Oh, _no way_. Mr Holmes? The detective?" His eyes lit up and a toothy grin followed suit. "I've got a friend in Law who **hates** your guts. Shame on him though, I think you're bloody brilliant. A bit of an arse from what I've been told, but _brilliant_." He smirked. "Go on. 'Read me'. Keen to see how this psychological phenomenon of observation works. Might be good for when I do my psych rotation in the future."

"Do your worst, Sherlock Holmes."

At first, Sherlock was quite pleased. John was doing what he wanted-he was going to meet his son. It wasn't necessarily what Sherlock wanted to do, but at the same time...it was, wasn't it? He wanted John to meet his son because he knew that John wanted to. Even now, it seemed he wanted John to be happy. At least, with this. Sherlock didn't believe that John could or would be happy with him, now. Not after all the tension that was currently in their relationship (a term he used loosely). However, if John were to meet his son...it would make things much better for him, would it not?

In any case, Sherlock was glad that John was agreeing with him. Of course John had to take it upon himself to babble and ramble, telling him that the time apart had given Mrs. Hudson the opportunity to clean. Sherlock didn't actually like hearing that. Dust was eloquent. He had always felt that way. Returning home to a flat with no dust-and of course he had noticed it when he had been there before-wasn't an appealing idea to him. Sherlock wanted to do everything that he and John needed to do while they were out, now, while they were out. If they returned to the flat after, he wanted to ensure that he wouldn't feel the need to leave it for a while. After all, he would need to get his dust back into place. Not that he could.

John knocking into someone made Sherlock roll his eyes. Why couldn't the man-alien-simply watch where he was going? Why didn't he have antennae with eyes attached to them to show John where he was going at all times? Hell, maybe John _did_ have antennae but simply hadn't shown Sherlock because he didn't want to be met with criticism. What if that was something he could hide, too, like his scales and fur? Sherlock thought the idea to be a bit absurd. After all, if he was going to insult anything, it would be John's silly tail, or even his pouch. Both of those he found quite odd. An extra set of eyes, however-especially ones that could swerve and see things from all angles-would be incredibly useful.

It didn't take Sherlock any time at all to realise who they were talking to. It was obvious to him right away, even if the hair and the inspiring blue eyes hadn't been there. The way the boy talked, the way he stood, the way he moved-everything reminded Sherlock of John. He didn't know how that was possible, really, given the fact that he had lost his father at a young age. However, it hadn't really been _that_ long ago, had it? John said that he'd really served in the war, which meant that he'd been on earth, what? Five years? Ten, perhaps?

Not that it mattered, really. Sherlock certainly wasn't going to ask him, not right now. Not with John's son- _John's son_ -asking John why he looked familiar.

The boy was more of a talker than Sherlock had ever known John to be. He kept going and going, rambling on about this and that. His school lecture, his little friend, something or other about the Tower of London. Of course the only thing that caught Sherlock's attention was when Steven told him that he was 'bloody brilliant'. Naturally, Sherlock already knew that he was, but it was always a good thing to hear. He wasn't surprised to hear it from, of all people, John Watson's own son.

"It is not a psychological phenomenon," Sherlock corrected, his voice curt, his manner as brusque as ever. "I see and I observe." earing his own words vocalised, now, seemed to be mocking him. He scoffed and flicked his wrist. "There is very little to tell about you. Your mother still does your laundry. You have a pet cat; orange fur, only a kitten given the lengths of the hairs. You have a girlfriend or you have hugged one of your female friends or family members; I can tell because you are wearing a distinctive cologne but you also have traces of perfume wafting from the front of your shirt. Given your appearance and area of study, as well as the fact that it is a perfume marketed towards women of your age, I am going to assume that it was a girlfriend. You had a packet of biscuits for dinner or a snack; there are a few crumbs on your shirt. However, given your neat appearance, you are not the sort of man to wear dirty clothes, therefore you have not yet washed this shirt, probably because you only put it on recently. I can tell that by the strength of the cologne. No man carries cologne with him in his trouser pocket."

There was nothing impressive there, and he could have gone on, but Steven had asked to be told about himself and Sherlock had complied. Now the detective looked at John.

"And what about you, John? You must have something to add, surely."

At first, there felt to be an uncomfortable silence between the trio, and the young man had this rather peculiar look on his face, as if he'd been given something akin to a compliment, or a very subtle insult. He glanced down at his shoes for a moment, but in a flurry of activity he clasped his hands together and began to chuckle. The grin off his face was from ear to ear and couldn't be wiped, no matter how hard he might have tried. Eventually his weak chuckle evolved to something of a heart chortle, and he had to take a moment or two to recompose himself. "My God, it's even more impressive in person." Steven nodded, his mouth still partly open from being purely impressed by Sherlock's deductive skills. "You got everything right. Bloody _everything_ \- oh, except for the fact that I don't get my mother to do my own laundry. I do. I might be a student but that doesn't automatically throw me into the category of one who might be incapable of cleaning his own clothes." He shrugged, seemingly enjoying their odd little quarrel. "Let's see, I _do_ have a cat - my sister's cat, actually. Never been fond of the thing myself, but until me and my _girlfriend_ find a flat of our own..." He gave an approving nod to Sherlock; a hint that he'd also gotten the observation right about his relationship status. "I'm stuck with the bloody feline." He huffed. "And speaking of my _girlfriend_ , we have a date tonight. Meeting after I push through a few hours at the library, hence the _cologne_."

Whilst Steven prattled on, John found himself at a loss for words. All he could do was watch and observe as his son displayed similar mannerisms to both himself and to his biological mother. The child, despite clearly suffering from severe retrograde amnesia, was as similar (if not more mature) as he was from the day that the family had been torn apart. And it was heartbreaking, standing there and not being able to reach out and touch his son as a father would care for his offspring. Steven had _no_ idea, but at the same time he seemed so happy. He had a girlfriend, an adoptive family who loved him, and was on the right track in terms of his education and career. He was funny, had a striking personality and regardless of bias, John considered him to be a well-looking lad.

 _And yet, he has_ _ **no**_ _idea what's in store for him in the next few years._

 _Or months._

"S-Steven, I-" John cleared his throat, and it was no secret that Sherlock was shooting him a glare, as if to say 'go on, you've been waiting for this'. "Well, this is hard. Do you, well-"

The younger of the three merely stood there and watched on curiously as John struggled to speak, his eyebrow slowly cocking in curiosity. "We've met before." He interrupted John, but his voice was laced with confusion. "You knew my name, and unless you've been stalking me - quite possible, although to be fair you don't seem to be the type - you know me."

"Steven, _shut up_. You _might_ want to sit down when you hear what I have to say."

Again, Steven looked confused. "Excuse me? Sit down? Mate, I've got a bus to catch and whilst I appreciate the little 'tarot card' display from your friend here-" He glanced at Sherlock, and returned a cautionary gaze back to John. "I have to say, I'm a little weirded out." He frowned. "Look, I accepted your apology. We both ran into each other through pure chance and it's all fine. For Christ's sake, it's fine. Not being rude, but I'd appreciate it if you'd just _leave_." He flickered his gaze to Sherlock. "Both of you."

"How's the itching going?" Better to break the ice, John figured. They had so much to cover, and his son was already showing signs of retaliation. A sign of things to come, he thought.

"Pardon?"

"I'd imagine it's slowly creeping down your back, moving it's way around your ribs and slowly descending to your thighs, right?" John huffed, and finally, Stevan had shut up. "And there's this _rash_ , probably starts off looking like a bruise and either it starts feeling hard and with a rough texture, or you get a rather bizarre spurt of hair growth."

The younger looked incredibly concerned, and pursed his lips together momentarily in thought. "How the _hell_ did you..."

"Ah, and assuming that you haven't had your pouch surgically closed up, I suspect that with your medical knowledge, you'd know to keep it **clean**. The acidity of the sac itself is important; a pH of 3.9 is fairly standard for adequate homeostasis and to ward off any nasty infections." Based on a very faint nod and widening eyes from the boy, John knew that he certainly had his attention. "And then there's your tail. And _yes_ , I know. Don't bother denying it. Should still be hairless at this point, right? But itchy." He huffed. "I can even tell you **where** your birthmark is. Base of your tail, and there's a bit of scar tissue on your left-"

"Enough!" The medical student looked as though he were on the verge of passing out, and he gripped the pole of the bus-sign tightly for support as he waved away John with his free hand. "You need to... You need to stay away from me. You've been stalking me." Stevan nodded sharply, and pointed his gaze to Sherlock. " **Both** of you!"

"Stevr- Steven, I'm sorry. I really am." John looked incredibly sympathetic, and his guilt began to engulf his heart. "But right now, it's best you come with us and we - _I_ can explain everything, from what you're going through to what _will_ happen to you. We'll sit down, have a bit of tea and I'm fairly sure there's a few week-old biscuits we can try to salvage from the kitchen." _Great selling point, John_. "Point is, and given your anatomical 'abnormalities', I'd imagine you've been trying to track down your birthparents. I can help you.." John paused. "I can help you find them, or, one of them. But for the sake of the argument, it's best you accompany us back to Baker Street." John flickered his attention to Sherlock, and frowned. "I think that's best, don't you?"

As Sherlock had predicted, he felt incredibly out of place. Steven's praise at his deductions did help to negate that for a while, but eventually the feeling of being very much a third wheel returned. Sherlock found himself wondering if he would have felt the same way if it had been John praising him. Sherlock had lived for that ever since John had called him amazing and extraordinary on the night of their first case. It had stayed with him over the years, always encouraging him even if he wasn't consciously thinking about it. Just the knowledge that John believed those things about him had been marvelous.

'That...was amazing. It was extraordinary, it was _quite_ extraordinary.' At the crime scene, later, John had told him, 'That's fantastic!' when he had deduced numerous things about the dead woman, Jennifer Wilson. Sherlock remembered details about all of his cases, but this one was especially memorable because it was the first one that John had assisted him with. Of course now Sherlock wondered if John hadn't known who the killer was the entire time, what with his apparent _genius_ -level intellect.

A part of him felt like he should be happy for John. Being smarter than Sherlock Holmes was quite the accomplishment. The only person on earth who had been able to claim the achievement thus far had been Mycroft. If John really was more clever than him, was he smarter than Mycroft, too? That wasn't as important to Sherlock as knowing that, for all his intellect, there was someone else out there better than him. At least with Mycroft, Sherlock had always known that the other man was more clever. With John, Sherlock had spent their years together calling John an idiot, teasing him, sighing and rolling his eyes whenever he was asked to explain things that John hadn't been able to follow along with or piece together on his own.

The knowledge that John may have only been humouring him the entire time made Sherlock's chest tighten. The man had his pride and it felt like that was now _all_ he had. John had said that he hadn't been secretly laughing at him for not knowing about his alien-status, but how was Sherlock supposed to believe that? After John had lied about everything else-nearly everything else, anyway-how could Sherlock know for certain that he wasn't lying about this, too? Because John was good and kind and wouldn't do such a thing? Sherlock nearly scoffed at the thought. It seemed to him that John would do whatever he pleased. He was finding it difficult-not, not just difficult; right now he was finding it impossible-to not be bitter towards the other man. He was keeping his mouth shut, gritting his teeth to keep from saying the wrong thing, and he listened as John and Steven interacted.

John was already taking on the role of a father once more. He seemed to slip into it immediately. Obviously he was comfortable with his son despite not having seen him for years. He knew exactly how to handle him, how to get his attention and make him listen. John wasn't a shy man and now was no exception. He obviously believed he knew what was best for Steven (and Sherlock agreed; not telling the boy what he actually was would have bordered on cruel; ironically, that was exactly what John had done to Sherlock). Steven, too, seemed to realise that he needed to go with this strange man whom he had only just, officially, met. At least, for the first time in years. The first time that he could remember, anyway.

Sherlock remained silent until John finally addressed him. He smiled politely, the corners of his lips turning upwards, but they immediately dropped into his perpetual scowl.

"Of course that is for the best," he agreed. "Tea, week-old biscuits, and a discussion about where you come from and what you are. Really, I can think of nothing better."

There were actually many, many things that Sherlock could think of that were better, but he knew that John would want him to be there. He didn't know _why_ that was the case. After all, he wasn't being useful here and now. What exactly was his purpose? To stop Steven if the boy tried to attack John? To catch Steven if he tried to go to the police? Was that why John had needed him? Surely it wasn't for emotional support. _Surely_ John knew better than to ask Sherlock Holmes, of all people, for such a thing.

Either way, Sherlock was already walking. They were close to the main road and he hailed a cab, sliding into the back seat. He wasn't looking forward to being crammed in the back with Steven and John, but at least all three of them were slim and John was vertically stunted. Besides, it beat waiting for and taking a bus any day.

As the other two men got in the cab, Sherlock pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and checked his emails, desperately hoping for a case that would catch his eye, something better than the normal 'I set down my keyring/necklace/phone/ring and now I can't find it'. As usual, there wasn't anything. There never was when he needed something-which just so happened to be always.

The silence was welcoming and it left John with a few moments to recollect his thoughts and focus on the situation at hand, but the awkwardness had left a thickening tension that lingered in the cab. He hadn't been sure _how_ it had occurred, but somehow he'd ended up closest to the window, and his lanky offspring had been wedged somewhere in between himself and the detective. It didn't help that these cabs weren't designed for space or comfort, and he could practically _feel_ the apprehension seethe from Steven like radiating heat. This wasn't good for anyone involved, and the guilt still lingered in John's heart. All the kid had wanted to do was to head to university and carry on with his normal life; hell, he was even going on a _date_ , but plans had changed.

Pale blue hues stared blankly at the window and John fought against any and all impulses to just turn and _stare_ at his son, or give a quick look at Sherlock to see how he was doing amongst all this chaos. The mere fact that he was but a hairs breadth away from his offspring tore open a new pain in his heart, but what could he do? He couldn't reach out and hug him. He couldn't even give him a fatherly pat on the shoulder as he used to. But worse still, he couldn't have the liberty to just openly chat with him at this very moment.

He could feel Steven start to shuffle beside him, and a hand brushed by his leg. A quick glance over revealed that the boy had simply been looking for his phone, and had been in the process of swiping through his contacts before pressing the device to his ear.

"Hey, hey - it's me." He had tried to sound so _calm_ , but even John could pick up the slight nervous undertones in his voice. "Yeah, look - I'm fine." The young adult peered cautiously at Sherlock, and flickered his eyes over to John. "Uh, no. I don't think I'm going to make the lecture; bloody bus didn't turn up. I _know_ , that's London's public transport system for you." A chuckle, but restrained. He was nervous. "Listen, Sam. We'll have to postpone the date tonight. It's nothing serious, it's all fine - _No_ , I've not been abducted by a Mexican Drug cartel." The sounds of a young woman with a heightening shrill voice could _just_ be heard in the small cab, but based on the student's look of detest for any form of confrontation with his girlfriend, he sighed heavily and threw in his best efforts to keep her fears at bay. "No, no. Even better. Sherlock Holmes and the odd bloke who tags around with him."

John's eyes lit up and he went to interject, but a hand reached out as Steven splayed his palm out for a moment to silence any future input from the frustrated father.

"Yeah, I _know_." He scoffed, and Steven pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pulled his rucksack onto his lap. "Look, Sam - if I don't call you by ten tonight, call the police. You got the name down? Sherlock Holmes, and his _live_ - _in_." A bit of input could be heard from this 'Sam', and Steven simply sighed heavily, and ran a free hand down his face. "You want to know the strangest part? Yeah, they _know_." A stay of silence followed, and Steven was now staring attentively at John. "My - yeah. And, yeah, that to." He swallowed thickly. "No, they just want to **talk**. Something to do with my birth parents 'apparently'. Yeah, I know, and _no_ \- they're _strange_. Look, I just need you to know where I'll be. Look him up, his address is on his website. Okay, talk to you soon. Love you." Hanging up, he let his phone fall onto his lap.

"Steven, you're not being _abducted_." John, now glaring at Steven; taking opportunity given that Steven was now looking at him. "Both myself and Sherlock believe it's best. If you want to leave, you can leave but in all fairness I think you need to hear what we have to-"

"No. Shut /up/. You barge into me, which isn't the issue - and start telling me that you know _all_ about my... _Secrets_." Steven looked utterly livid. "Not even my own **parents** and sisters know about my 'issues'. Granted, Sam does, that's neither here nor there. The fact is that you _know_ , and there's no possible way that you could have known _unless_ you somehow stalked me into my own _shower_!" He scoffed. "And for the life of me, I can't figure it out! Do you know how bloody **meticulous** I am at keeping my secrets at bay? There's no **possible** way that you could have known. None whatsoever, and I don't care if you're bunking with Sherlock bloody Holmes - there's no way **he** could have known either!" He sighed heavily, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't need more people knowing that I'm a... Freak."

"Steven, **relax**. Keeping going the way you're going, and the cab driver's going to know." John whispered, his tone slightly clipped. "Now, you're not a freak. Not to me, alright?" This time, he threw caution to the wind and reached forward to clasp his hand on Steven's shoulder, and gave it a familiar squeeze. "Not to me, not to Sherlock and obviously not to your girlfriend."

"But _why_ the hell do you **both** know? You said you know something about my parents, right?" A flicker of hope glinted in his eyes. "You know them? You know where they are?"

 _Of course I know you._

"That's what we're going to talk about." He let his hand slip from Steven's shoulder, and peered over at Sherlock. "Both of us, with you. Plus, tea and biscuits."

"I thought you said they were a week old." Steven retorted, even going so far as to offer up a weak smirk. "Look - I just hope you know just how much trust I'm placing in **both** of you. The _only_ reason I'm going is because you mentioned my parents. My _biological_ parents." As if on cue, the sounds of wheels grinding to a halt gave Steven the insight that they'd arrived at their destination, and John was already reaching over to hand the cabbie a tenner. "And if this **is** a sodding attempt at some sort of abduction, don't forget - I've got my girlfriend poised to call the police if need-be, understood?"

John scoffed, and merely rolled his eyes. "Oh for heaven's sakes, just get out of the cab. _Now_."

To his credit, Sherlock knew that it would look inappropriate, him smirking the entire ride back to 221B. Or at least, from the time that John and Steven started talking until they arrived. Steven was very much like his father; Sherlock had to admit that. They were both hard-headed and stubborn, neither liking to be told what to do or to be talked down to. Sherlock, of course, was the same way. Ironically, it had always helped he and John get along better. Up until three weeks ago, anyway.

Sherlock would never forget that day. He had received a telephone call from Lestrade; the man had been telling him about a new case that he had, some psychopath who was forcing people to eat themselves to death-literally-and of course Sherlock hadn't been able to resist. He'd had a bit of a dry spell with his cases, anyway, and one that was so gruesome and shocking was right up his alley. After shouting at John, who was upstairs in his room, and receiving no response, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to dart upstairs and wake the man, interrupt his masturbatory session, or tell him to get out of the shower. Obviously he was doing something that made it impossible for him to hear Sherlock, or he was doing something that made him want to simply ignore the detective.

Nothing could have prepared Sherlock for what he saw. Nothing except the prior knowledge that alien life existed, _and_ that his flatmate was part of such a species. Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn't known either. He opened the door and burst into John's room, not bothering to knock-cases came before decency, after all (most things came before decency, in Sherlock's mind)-and his eyes immediately fell on his flatmate.

His flatmate who didn't look anything like himself.

Scales. Fur. The _tail_. The former appendage had held Sherlock's attention the longest, just because-well. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe because it was moving, flicking from side to side as Sherlock entered and then stopping as soon as he was actually in the room and John had realised it. For a brief moment, they had just stared at one another. John had gone on to say something (at least, Sherlock thought, now, that he had; he hadn't heard it then and he couldn't piece together what John may have said even now), but Sherlock was still staring.

Staring.

Staring.

Staring.

When Sherlock had been able to move again, he had blinked. Then he had turned and left _quickly_. The man who was making people eat themselves to death-The Stuffer, he'd been dubbed-had been forgotten. He had walked around London until the sun came up the next morning. He didn't have a clue where he was because he hadn't been paying attention. Although he saw people walking by, and subconsciously made observations both about them and about his location, he hadn't been consciously focusing on them. He hadn't been able to get the image of John out of his mind. Whenever he tried to forget about it, or delete it, it immediately returned.

At least there was some comfort in the fact that the initial shock had, at long last, worn off. Sherlock was stilled stunned and confused, but at least he wasn't like he had been, eyes wide and mouth gaping open. Now he was back to his witty, curt self. He didn't feel very brilliant next to John anymore, but at least Steven seemed to find him so. _That_ was a strange thought in and of itself, both that John was smarter than him (or so Sherlock believed) and that Sherlock actually _liked_ something about John's son. The detective had never been fond of children, so it also helped that Steven was a young man, rather than an infant in nappies toddling about. If that had been the case, Sherlock would have been even more against going with John to meet him than he had been.

Sherlock led the way into 221. Mrs. Hudson was back for the evening, it seemed, and she came out of her own flat with her hands still wet from doing the dishes. She had an enormous smile on her face, as she usually did, and she had just opened her mouth to tell them all about her Bingo prize-fifty pounds or more, Sherlock guessed, given the pure state of _ecstasy_ in which she appeared to be-when Sherlock met her eye and shook his head.

"Not really the time, Mrs. Hudson," he warned. Even though she looked disappointed, she crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, sighing. Before walking upstairs, Sherlock caught her eye and smirked. "And congratulations on your winnings."

Steven, Sherlock noticed, remained closer to him than he did to John. That was probably due to the fact that it was John, not Sherlock, who he found to be off-putting. John was the one who kept talking to him; John was the one who suggested that Steven come with them back to Baker Street in the first place. Although both John and Sherlock were known for their work with the Met, it was Sherlock who really had his name talked about. John was merely his shadow, the one who ran after him and provided assistance where and how Sherlock needed it.

Now, Sherlock wondered if those roles should have been reversed, if John was as clever as Sherlock was making himself think that he was.

Once they were in their portion of the flat, Sherlock went to the fridge and got out one of John's beers. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself right down into his chair. _He_ certainly wasn't going to do the talking. This was John's son. John's species. John's responsibility. Sherlock still couldn't fathom why John had insisted that he be there, although a new guess had entered into his mind-maybe John only wanted him there to make him look foolish. Maybe he felt that Sherlock deserved a bit of comeuppance for always treating him like a simpleton.

Despite how many times Sherlock told himself that John Watson would never do such a thing, there was always another voice telling him, _but he's not_ really _John Watson._

Not that John Watson Sherlock had thought he'd known.

Steven was looking at everything from his position in the center of the room, from the books on the shelves to the buffalo skull that hung on the wall; to the human skull on the mantle and the sheep's eyes piled up in the sink. The flat smelled of both cinnamon and formaldehyde, a smell that Sherlock only noticed now because he hadn't been in the flat for three weeks, save stopping in it for only a moment to collect John.

"If I wasn't here under such..." Steven trailed off, waving his hand, frustrated. "If I wasn't here under such _weird_ circumstances, I'd actually be thrilled. I've always wanted to see what this place looks like, but I've never had enough of a mystery to interest you. I've heard you only take the hardest ones, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock's only response was a bored hum, prompting Steven to continue. The young man looked at John with an expression that plainly said, ' _Well?'_.

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about, then? What do you know about my birth parents? And whatever it is, _how_ do you know? How did you know all that stuff about _me_?"

There had been an evening ray of light that had pushed through the dirty window glass and had highlighted the dust hovering effortlessly in the air. John had found himself transfixed on such a novelty, but his son's reasonable demands as to an explanation were lingering and the alien didn't feel it fair to leave the boy hanging. He'd been waiting over a decade of his life to reconnect with his offspring and had always had an outpouring of hope that Stevran was always alive and well with thanks to the biological bond that he shared. And now, here they were. Sitting across from each other as if his own son was a client with a nearly unsolvable case.

"Stevran." He curled his fingers around the ends of his armrests, his tension rising within. Time was of the essence and sensitivity was key. This moment had been a long time coming and whilst he could never have envisioned that he'd have a friend so trustworthy as Sherlock by his side (Sherlock's reluctance was duly noticed, of course), it was far greater than just bursting out the truth in the middle of the street and having the boy take off into the afternoon. But the way John saw it, he had one solid shot to get this right; one solid chance _not_ to scare his boy off and back to his family.

Or worse, the police.

"Stevran is your name, by the way. The name your mother gave you at your birth." His grip tightened, and the feeling in his chest grew deeper as he struggled to steady his breathing and keep up the facade of his falsified confidence. Blue eyes studied Stevran's own with a fleeting intensity, but he could _tell_ that he'd certainly piqued the boy's interest. He could _tell_ that the name bore some significance and familiarity to the boy, and so the student kept silent. He didn't argue, he didn't protest; he merely listened.

"I _know_ there's a huge chunk of your life that you can't recall; likely around the time you were adopted, right? You were plenty shorter then. Bit rounder in the face, and you had a _terrible_ haircut, but I'd be so bold to blame your mother on-"

Stevran inched his chair forward, and his distaste for John's waffling was clear. "Please, get to the point."

"Ten years ago, you were adopted. Heaven's knows where you were found but I'd say it was somewhere on the outskirts of Bristol." John would often glance nervously at Sherlock, having felt a constant twinge of guilt each and every time that he brought up a few shred about his life that he hadn't yet discussed with Sherlock. It almost felt like a sense of betrayal to their friendship, and given that John had kept Sherlock in the dark for so long... Perhaps it was. "You likely looked like a young teen at that time, but you're only just starting to come into your maturity now." He swallowed thickly, and straightened his back. "Tell me, Stevran, how old do you think you are?"

Silence followed, and the boy appeared to be stilted at being put on the spot.

"Stevran." John repeated, his tone going cold. "How _old_ do you-"

"I'm twenty one." The boy finally spoke up, but he was looking at his feet. And John had been 'practicing' with Sherlock long enough to know that he was showing clear signs of uncertainty, and certainly fear. "I've always had a bit of a kid's face, and if I had a pound for each and every time I'd get carded before buying alcohol-"

"Thirty five." John stated that number with enough certainty to come across as incredibly convincing, and the boy merely stared. "Technically you're still an adolescent; explains why you look so..." _Don't say human, don't say human_. "It explains why you're only starting to itch, but the rashes are a sign of things to come." His fingers intertwined and he felt incredibly uncomfortable by putting his son on the spot on such a way, especially with Sherlock sitting there in the room and casually observing. "That 'pouch' I referred to earlier on, I mentioned before about keeping it clean, yes?" As if on cue, Stevran brought up his hand and brushed his fingers over his shirt, as if dusting off crumbs.

"I still don't understand how you could possibly know about-"

"As you... 'Come into your own', it's going to start feeling incredibly tender and sore. You might see a bit of blue discharge pool at the base, but unless you're planning on having a family I _suggest_ you clean it out when-"

"Oh my **God**." The boy looked absolutely livid, and pushed up out of his chair and ruffled his fingers through his hair as he energetically paced. "I think I understand now. Oh, it makes perfect sense!" He began to chuckle, and stopped to a halt as he swivelled around on his heels and clapped his hands together mockingly. "You're implying that I'm some sort of 'alien', correct? ET? I suppose you think I'm just your regular-day Clark Kent, right? And, and-" He poised a finger high, a grin fixed to his mouth. "Let me guess, you're my 'father', right? I mean, how else would you know so much about my body? That, and you know about my _birthmark_ for Christ's sake. Not even my _girlfriend_ knows about that!" His tone appeared to be utterly incredulous at this point, but he wasn't finished. "Either that, or a weirdo who's obviously trying to profit from my deformities. You and your..." He gestured to Sherlock. "Partner."

John's frown deepened and he could see the defiance in his son that he initially feared would come through. But he'd come _so far_ and he wasn't prepared to just let this all slip away because a boy didn't fare well with the alleged truth.

"Stevran, **shut up** and **sit down**!" John roared, now having pulled himself to his feet and he stared point plank at his son. "You know what? You're absolutely right. Spot on, actually. I _am_ your **father**." He snapped, and he stepped further towards his son until he literally had him backed up against a wall. "It's scary, I get it. You don't want to hear the truth, because this really _does_ throw a damper into your day and I'm _sorry_ for that, but the fact of the matter is that you are **not** like everyone else, and you are different. You are like me, because we are related." He rasped. "So stop acting like the child that you are - just for a moment - and sit down and _listen_ because I do **not** want to have to repeat myself. Is that clear?"

Stevran, being in the situation that he was, had eyes widened and his little tantrum clearly had come to an end. But he was _terrified_ , and John's temper wasn't exactly soothing the situation.

With John's back slightly turned to Sherlock, he heaved in and out with trepidation as he looped his fingers beneath the hem of his jumper and short, and rucked them up without a second thought. Since living with Sherlock he'd retained _some_ of his proud musculature that he'd received from years of army training, but he wasn't stripping off to show Stevran his 'abs'. Instead, he hiked it up high enough to the point where a red, somewhat inflamed looking line could be seen that extended from one side of his chest to the other, and sat just below his pectorals. At first, it almost appeared to be just a simple line of scar tissue - but John placed a hand atop it and began to part skin away from skin until a small shred of moist flesh could be seen.

Needless to say, the boy was stunned speechless but merely nodded at the sight of it, and pushed away from the wall and plopped himself back down into the client's chair. John, still standing there foolishly with his clothes hiked up to beneath his chin, turned around to peer at Sherlock. "On the off chance that you _want_ to look, now's your chance. I promised you no more secrets, and I'm not about to break that promise now."

"And Stevran." He looked at the frazzled boy who now had his head in his hands as he appeared to be hunched over on the chair. "Just, take a deep breath. Take it all in, and _relax_."

There was very little that Sherlock could do here and now, besides putting himself into Steven's-or Stevran's, whichever name he was going to go by-shoes. Sherlock Holmes never took it upon himself to be empathetic. It went against everything that he had been taught as a child, by Mycroft. 'Caring is not an advantage'. 'Logic and reason; those are the only two things you need to solve any problem.' For the most part, Sherlock had found that to be the case, time after time again.

John had come along, then, and Sherlock had found it difficult to continue keeping himself detached. At least, he had found it difficult to continue keeping himself detached from _John_. It had been fairly easy to keep everyone else at bay. However, considering that he lived with the doctor, it was only natural that he would be influenced, if only slightly. John was influenced by him, too. Whereas Sherlock learned about human nature, John learned about deductive reasoning. Personally, Sherlock believed that John was getting the better end of the deal, but he had always kept his thoughts about it to himself. Sherlock still wasn't an empathetic creature, but at least he knew the process of how to _pretend_ to be.

Sherlock _did_ look when John turned around and showed off his…pouch. Although, 'showed off' implied that John was proud of it, and the doctor didn't appear to be. Getting him to talk about it over text had been like pulling teeth. Now that Sherlock could see it, he couldn't deny that he was a bit intrigued. The closest thing that Sherlock could think to compare it to was a vaginal opening. While the idea of John carrying offspring inside his body _was_ a off-putting to him, Sherlock knew that it was only because he had been conditioned to believe that it was impossible for men do such things. However, he had done a bit of research and found that the closest thing seemed to be seahorses, scientific name _Hippocampinae_ , rank, genus. The males and females would do a courtship dance and then the female would put her eggs into the male's pouch, where they would be fertilized and gestate.

Researching seahorses, of all things, had made Sherlock feel more than a little foolish. After all, he did not often take it upon himself to learn about things that weren't directly related to his cases in some way or another. By the loosest standards, seahorses _were_ related to his cases. Seahorses were like John; John worked with Sherlock, Sherlock solved the cases. That was the connection.

Sherlock was only drawn out of his thoughts when he heard Stevran inhaling shakily from where he sat in his chair. Sherlock knew what he was going through, at least in regards to finding out something life-changing. Something that he would have preferred to not ever have been told. The boy was beginning to shift in his seat until he finally stood up and resumed his pacing, fighting the urge to hyperventilate.

"No," he insisted, shaking his head and gesturing towards the chair, as if the piece of furniture itself had somehow affronted him personally. "No, I can't—I can't sit. I can't sit. How do you expect me to just—no."

The look on the younger man's face told Sherlock everything that he needed to know. Stevran was aware that John was telling the truth, logically, but he couldn't believe it all the same. It was too shocking, too— _impossible_. And even if it _was_ possible, that wasn't to say that Stevran would even want it. If Sherlock had learned that he was capable of actually carrying and gestating children, that he was going to grow fur on his tail (which he shouldn't even have), then he, too, would be opposed to those things, regardless of how inevitable or _normal_ they were.

"Your father," Sherlock spoke up, deciding to call the doctor as such because it would further cement the idea in the boy's mind, "does seem to have a difficult time understanding how difficult this is for _us_ to understand." Stevran nodded earnestly and Sherlock looked at John, clearly gloating to have John's own son on his side. "If it is any consolation at all—which I cannot imagine that it will be—I have only just found out about all of this myself. Three weeks ago, granted, but three weeks has not been nearly enough time for me to accept it. I even have it far more easily than you do. You have to _live_ it. I simply have to live _with_ it."

Stevran looked between Sherlock and John. He pointed a shaking finger at the two of them. "You mean you two…you aren't…"

"Partners?" Sherlock snorted. "We most certainly are not."

Was that cruelty, speaking so tersely wasn't a relationship and it had never been one. John had always, always, _always_ said that he wasn't gay, and if the truth be told, Sherlock wasn't either. He had never done anything with _anyone_. He had never wanted to.

Not until he'd met John.

Of course Sherlock had never spoken about his feelings for multiple reasons, the first and foremost being that he wasn't the sort of man to open up. Bloody hell, he rarely even talked about his childhood and youth or his own personal likes and dislikes. The thought of telling John that he had entertained the fantasy of reaching over and taking his hand in his own while they sat through one of those ridiculous James Bond films had only abruptly flashed through his mind before Sherlock had shooed it off. They got along perfectly as flatmates and colleagues. Why would he have risked ruining it by bringing up something that could never be?

That was the sole reason why Sherlock had mentioned it only a few hours ago. He felt that they were already ruined, so why not take the plunge?

Even if John _was_ sexually and romantically interested in men, Sherlock wasn't. That would probably bring about some difficulties in the relationship. As he had told John, he preferred men simply because he seemed to get along better with them, generally, but that didn't at all mean that he wanted to _sleep_ with them.

Just John.

Even if John was a woman, Sherlock would have been interested because it was _John_. Genitalia, really, had nothing to do with it.

Greater than that, though, was the fact that Sherlock didn't _do_ relationships. He never had. He wouldn't have the slightest idea of how to please a partner or how to act in a way that was 'proper'. The question remained, too: even if he _did_ know the proper way to act, would he act that way? Or would he act the way he always did, aloof and selfish, cold and, one could say, neglectful? He wouldn't ever go on dates. He wouldn't do anything romantic. He wouldn't be _sweet_. He would be exactly the same as he always was but with added sexual intercourse. Surely no normal person would want to be in a relationship like _that_.

That raised a curious question, and Sherlock looked away from John to his son. How would this 'Sam'—Samantha, Sherlock assumed—take the knowledge that her boyfriend was an alien? Would he even bother telling her? If he was going to start developing the fur and the scales, surely he would _need_ to.

"Why are you telling me this now, then?" Stevran asked, looking to his…father, as John seemed to have all of the answers. God, his _father_. He had a father already. He was a chef, a wonderful man and a great husband and father who adored all three of his children. Stevran loved him. This man, Sherlock Holmes's live-in assistant…he was only a _stranger_.

"You said the itching and the rashes are only signs of things to come. You said…you said that my—my tail should still be hairless at this _point_. What does that mean?" He cleared his throat, doing his best to maintain his composure as he held onto the back of his chair, his fingers drumming against it. "What's going to happen to me?"

John couldn't believe it, but there he stood as witness to Sherlock encouraging John's own flesh and blood to side with the detective by using fear as a valid motivator. It was unfair, it was cruel and if John hadn't been desperately seeking forgiveness for his dishonesty, he would have lodged a verbal retaliation to defend what little dignity that remained. But he couldn't, and he wouldn't. There'd be no point in voicing his clear distaste in the unusual angle that Sherlock was taking in making his frustrations extremely clear, for Sherlock wasn't the kind who would simply budge at John's every whim. On the contrary, he'd find an excuse to belittle Watson just to prove a point.

But couldn't he see that John was truly _trying_ to mend the shattered remains of what was once a stable friendship? Granted, John had made mistakes and the persistent reminders from his peer were unnecessary, for he knew he was in the wrong. He had lied about aspects of his past, and he'd omitted to the truth that essentially shaped his being. And while at first he was initially under the assumption that Sherlock was more fearful of what he'd seen that fateful day when he'd barged into John's room unannounced, he'd realised by about the second week that Sherlock felt emotionally betrayed. And considering that Sherlock didn't seem like the type to be so easily hurt, John had messed up.

There'd been no doubt about it; he'd screwed up _badly_.

Letting the woollen overlay of his jumper and his cotton shirt fall down over his _be'cha'_ (loosely translated to 'carriage' but in anatomical terms it was his _gestational sac_ ), he brushed down the material to smoothen out the creases. He felt so helpless by watching Stevran practically have an emotional meltdown, and being a once doting father on his child, to watch and not being able to help was utterly heart wrenching. He wanted to reach out and hold him, to stroke his hair and tell him that he'd regretted every single year that he'd let his abandonment from his father lapse. He wanted to calm him down, and tell him that there was nothing to fear about the changes that his body was preparing to go through, and tell him about the wonders of the universe and about the home he grew up in. Christ, he wanted to be the father that he'd once been, but reality quickly overcame his heart and he _knew_ that his chances of things going back to the way they'd once been were poor at best.

"Just, _explain_." The adolescent sounded emotionally strained. Just another reason for John's heart to fall deeper within his chest. "What the hell is happening to me?" He inhaled deeply and tapped his foot impatiently on the floor, the boy clearly troubled. "Before we got into the cab, Mr. Holmes said that I would find out 'where' I was from, and 'what' I am."

Glistening eyes shot up; startling blue hues locked with John's own. "What did he mean?"

At this point, John wanted to sink further into his chair and disappear. He wasn't being the father that he'd once been and he was already failing at being a decent friend. Sherlock had already specified that he and John were certainly not 'partners', and why should John have even held out much hope? The beanpole of a detective had completely tossed aside any notion of a biological bond that clearly existed between them, and he seemed rather adamant that they not move past anything other than platonic. But John's biological desire to pursue his feelings with Sherlock were at present, misplaced. He had a son to tend to, and despite assuring Sherlock otherwise, it seemed the case that Sherlock was being pushed to the background as he and Stevran spoke.

"Look." His voice became light, almost as though he were a doctor being incredibly delicate with a patient. Giving up the urge to nestle safely into the couch, he slid to his feet and approached his son with a sense of trepidation, and stood a comfortable length from the apprehensive boy. "You are my son. My biological, son." Oh, that desire to reach out and place a fatherly hand on his shoulder was terribly strong, but he couldn't. Not now, not when Stevran was so... Fragile.

"You've said that. I believe you, and I don't **care**." The adolescent stepped back, his head shaking and his hands slipping from the chair. "Just, tell me. I have a tail, I have that..." He waved at John's chest, and grimaced. "Thing." He breathed. "We're clearly related and I'd be an idiot if I tried to deny that, but what is going to happen to me? What am I? Where am I - where are _we_ from?"

 _I don't care._

Three defining words that caused John's hopes to fall within seconds. If his son acknowledged their familial relationship, how could he not _care_? How could he not see the significance in finding one of his birthparents? The kid was in shock no doubt, but that wasn't the reaction John was expecting. The boy wasn't leaping at him with open arms, but rather, he was moving away.

"You don't care?" John blinked, but remained stoic and stone-faced; but pain was laden in his voice. "Uncertainty and confusion since you could remember; fear, I might add, for people finding out about your 'abnormalities', and you finally have the opportunity to _meet_ your own father and you 'don't care'?" This hurt. All of this, it hurt. His son didn't want to meet him, Sherlock despised him and everything felt as though it were falling apart.

"I never - for Heaven's sake, I didn't mean it like that." The young man pushed away from where he was and shouldered past John, and he came to a halt when he almost blindly ran into Sherlock's chair.

With Sherlock still sitting _in_ it.

"Oh? Enlighten me mate, how _did_ you mean it?" John scoffed, both arms crossed over his chest, and Stevan swivelled around to meet his gaze. "You want answers, you just don't want to be slugged with the fact that your parents weren't as dead as you thought, right?" _Ease it off, John._ "Because it's far easier to think that you've either got deadbeat parents who are either no-hopers, or dead. Otherwise, you have a _real_ parent who actually raised you from young; who _gives_ a damn, might I add - and then you have to deal with the bloody fallout!"

"You approached **me**!" Stevran finally snapped, and he edged behind the coffee table and threw himself down onto John's chair. "I _have_ a father, and a mother. I've got sisters;I've got a _girlfriend_." He gripped his hair tightly and heaved. "And Samantha - and Medical School. I have a life; I _had_ a normal life now you're telling me I'm... I'm not even-"

"Human? No. You're not human. You were _never_ human, and in less than a year you're not even going to **look** human." Time to break the ice, it seemed. And as expected, Stevran didn't look too pleased. In fact, he looked as though he was going to be sick. "There's the tenderness I mentioned, and there's the rash. Excess body hair might be starting to push through, but that's not even the half of it." Tensions were rising, and John felt as though he were already on the warpath with his son. "Shaving isn't going to help; it'll grow back in seconds. But then parts of your skin will start to roughen, and then they'll start to flake off and it will gradually get harder and harder until you'll develop something similar to-"

"Scales." Stevran's face whitened. Clearly, he knew _exactly_ what John was referring to.

He hummed and nodded in response. "Scales. The distribution of fur to scales largely depends on the individual but you will, without fail, start undergoing some _very_ significant changes for your commencement into adult maturity and yes, it will change you."

"But y-you don't-"

"I take a solution to suppress the hormone that enables my physical features to come out. It's not a permanent fixture and I've gained a tolerance to seven of my formulations of the solution over the years, but right now I've got one that's working and it's _enough_ and it keeps me going for the most part." He gripped the edge of the client's chair, and lightly teetered it back and forth. "This is hard, and this whole thing is a cock-up-"

"Understatement of the century..." Stevran murmured.

"But I want to **help**." John pleaded. "For Christ's sake, it wasn't my intention for us to be violently separated but it is what it is, and now, we're here. We're back together." He furthered his gaze to Sherlock; his heart beating with sympathy and regret. "And despite what Sherlock thinks of me; despite the fact that he thinks we're _not_ partners, I think of him as the most loyal and trustworthy _partner_ I've ever had the pleasure and privilege to know. Sod what he thinks, I don't care about _that_. But I care about **him** , and I care about **you**. And I've cocked this all up, but I don't want to lose you _both_."

In response, Stevran remained silent. He stared down at the ground, and then buried his head in his hands.

The description of change that Stevran would be going through was enough to make even _Sherlock_ want to cringe. He didn't, of course, because he was Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes couldn't be seen doing such things...but it was tempting. He couldn't imagine learning one day that his entire form would change, especially since there was nothing that could _really_ be done to stop it. At least Stevran would have John's expertise to help him. Seven formulations. Jesus. The knowledge served to further remind Sherlock that he wouldn't have been able to come up with such a thing if John had asked him to. It hurt to be reminded that he wasn't as brilliant of a scientist as he thought he was (at least, not compared to John), but just like with his urge to cringe, Sherlock kept the emotion suppressed. Focusing on it would only make things worse between them.

Obviously this little 'reunion' wasn't going as well as John had envisioned it. Or, maybe it was going _exactly_ how he had envisioned it. He had been hesitant to go through with it, after all. Sherlock had only insisted upon it because he knew how mopey John would get if he didn't meet his son. More than likely, Stevran would have eventually been 'found out'. How would he have explained that? He wouldn't have been able to. He wouldn't have even known what was going on himself. It would have spurred panic; testing would be done on him, or he would have to run away and live a life of solitude, never knowing what had happened to him or why.

No. This was better. As much as Sherlock hated feeling like a stranger in his own home, it was what had to happen. John was upset, just as much as Stevran, although they were obviously anxious and angry about two different things. John was heartbroken-Sherlock, now, believed he knew what that felt like-to hear that his son didn't care. Stevran was terrified that he was going to become a 'freak' and that his real father had suddenly sought him out, just in time to warn him about changes that he didn't even want to happen. For once, Sherlock found himself being grateful for his 'normalcy'.

"Perhaps we should give you time to assimilate what you have heard," Sherlock suggested, and he stood up from his chair at long last. Really, he just wanted to get John out of the room and tell him to calm himself. He understood why John was upset; the doctor did prone to have fits of anger bordering upon hostility, but he also knew that John would regret raising his voice to his son and then _Sherlock_ would be the one having to deal with it.

Assuming they remained in one another's lives.


	4. Chapter 4

Walking over to John, Sherlock gripped the man's arm and tugged on it. He wasn't going to _force_ John to leave the room, but he thought it wise. Granted, what the hell did he know? He had thought his flatmate was human up until three weeks ago. Sherlock hated how he was questioning everything about John and himself; he absolutely _hated_ it, but he didn't know how to stop. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way before—betrayed. Completely and utterly betrayed.

The only other person Sherlock had ever put as much trust in was Mycroft. Even saying that, though, was generous. Sherlock hadn't had much choice but to trust his brother from early on in his life. Their parents, as loving as they were, were idiots. They would leave their children and go on extended holidays, telling Mycroft—who was, himself, a child—'Look after Sherlock, dear!'

In their defense, Mycroft had always been mature for his age. Nothing had ever actually happened to either boy that would make a person think, 'What awful parents, leaving their kids alone!' However, the fact remained that it had put Sherlock in a situation where he had to trust Mycroft. Even so, it took only fifteen years before they stopped getting along (not that they ever _really_ had), and then that trust stopped and hostility replaced it. Sherlock hadn't ever thought he would trust anyone again, not with anything of real importance, until he had met John.

And now, that trust was broken.

No matter, though. Sherlock and his brother had been able to develop an arrangement that worked well enough for them; they saw each other when work needed to be done and spoke very little outside of it. Perhaps he and John could continue on living and working together, even if the emotional connection that had once been there would no longer be.

Not for a while, at least.

Stevran did want to be left alone, just for a while. He still had questions—plenty of them—but at the moment, he just…he just needed a moment to absorb everything, or at least try to. He heard the detective walking away, through the sitting room and down a hall that, he assumed, led to his bedroom or an office.

Leaving him and his father, alone, and for the life of him, Stevran didn't know what he was supposed to say.

How was Sam going to take all of this? Would she? Should he even tell her? God, surely he wasn't going to be expected to _leave_ her? Although, if he was going to have fur and scales…maybe it would be for the best, no? The tail was bad enough; it was what had drawn Stevran to plastic surgery to begin with, the desire to help others be rid of their birth deformities. He hadn't ever fathomed that he was _meant_ to have a tail, or a slit on his torso, or scales and fur.

The only thing he was certain of was that he was uncertain. About everything.

"A minute," he said, softly, and risked glancing up at John. His father. The man who had helped conceive him, the man who had helped raise him, teach him. The man he couldn't even remember. Stevran's hands curled into fists at his knees, but then he brought them back up to his face. "He's right, just—just give me a minute. Please."

A minute. As if a mere minute would actually make all of this 'okay'. As if it would somehow make him feel like his life wasn't ruined or that he wasn't some sort of monster straight out of bloody Star Trek or Doctor Who.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was lying right on his bed. There was dust in his room, at least, but it was the one room he never actually wanted it. He didn't need to track the motions of his own room. If Mrs. Hudson or John came in cleaning or searching for drugs, he would know. He always did.

Until John came and got him, demanded that he come back out into the sitting room for 'moral support' or whatever the hell it was he was even doing here, Sherlock was quite content to check his email on his phone, hoping that the alien murderer—ha—hadn't skipped town.

Stevran needed a minute, and that was a completely reasonable request. After all, he'd just discovered that he no longer could lay claim to his humanity, and that in less than a year he'd become something almost unrecognisable. John assumed that poor Stevran must have seen this as the universe belting him a nasty slap to the face; living with a tail and hiding it from his family must have been hard, but to find out that his alien appendage wasn't even the worst of things to come was, quite frankly, _unfair_. The kid had prospects; he had a _girlfriend_ for Christ's sake and he had already paved his path to a solid career and a brilliant future, and now his alien heritage was going to cock it all up. Poor kid, John thought. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to have this strapped onto his shoulders when his life was only just starting to take off and flourish.

 _I'm so, so sorry son._

 _If things had worked out another way, we would be in this bloody mess._

No, they wouldn't. John would have his loving wife; he'd have has house and his luscious garden that he'd often tend to so frequently during his downtime. But not only that, he'd have the daughter that was denied every opportunity at life, the one who he'd lost upon impact. He'd mentioned her in passing to Sherlock when they'd been flogging texts back and forth to each other, but mention of his little girl had been so brief that he was certain Sherlock either took no notice, or didn't give a flying sod. But from the day John's ship was ambushed and plummeted down through Earth's atmosphere below, he could recall every waking moment. The fear he felt and the screams from his passengers still ran through his mind like a broken record; even the bruising he sustained from his arm from his loved ones gripping him _so_ tight as fire flashed over the glass of the cockpit upon their violent descent. The visual recollection when he awoke to see his ship in ruins, and the body of his wife crushed beneath a bulkhead remained in his memories with crystal clear clarity, including the absence of his son which had sent him into an futile bout of screams as he cried out his name into the darkness of the night.

But then, there'd been the harrowing realisation that the feeling of being punched in the stomach was exactly that; and that nurturing bond he'd shared with all his family had been severed twice in one night; first his wife, and then the four month old unborn who still lay inside him. To have physically retrieved the detached foetus from his pouch and to have cradled her so delicately in his arms as he crouched in the middle of an alien field was something he could **never** truly forget; she'd been so beautiful, so perfect and so incredibly tiny as she lay limp, but John could recall thinking that she looked so _peaceful_. It was a memory that haunted his thoughts each and every night before he went to sleep, and certainly enough to get him waking him shocked and in a nasty cold sweat.

Sherlock thought he had night terrors about _Afghanistan_ , and there were times when that would be the case. But he was haunted by his past; haunted by what he'd lost and the life that he'd been forced to leave behind.

John could recall feeling a subtle squeeze on his arm and before long, Sherlock had departed to his room. The tension in the living quarters still remained as John and his son stood eye to eye, yet the doctor was starting to wonder if he'd made a horrid mistake. This wasn't right. Ruining his son's life wasn't _right_ ; and the boy was already incredibly overwhelmed. Perhaps letting Stevran leave and returning to the normalcy of his night - if that were even possible at this point. He'd made him aware that his father was alive and he'd revealed himself to be that person, and for now, that was more than enough.

"You can have more than a minute." John brought his hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed heavily. "In fact, I..."

 _I'm going to regret this._

"It's probably best you go, _Steven_." Oh, that felt terrible. He was already failing at his return to parenthood and he no longer felt himself worthy of such a title.

"W-What?" Stevran looked somewhere between heartbroken and livid, but still presented with a sickly pallor from the shock. "Let me get this straight." He dug his hands in his pockets and stared with glistening eyes at his father. His _biological_ father, he reminded himself. At this point, the pair shared nothing more than genes and forgotten experiences. "You brought me all the way to your flat so you could tell me that my _life_ is going to be ruined because of the genes that **you** gave me?" He scoffed, his tone now shifting over to lividity. "You sought me out so you could _warn_ me that unless I turn to you and your little chemical 'concoctions', I'm going to be a slave to my own genetics. Right? That's what you're saying?"

 _I sought you out because you are my son, and I love you._

 _Why can't you see that?_

John stood strong as the boy continued his verbal tirade, each word digging deeper than the last. He hadn't realised how much of an emotional anchor that Sherlock had been until he'd left, and things were going south. Fast.

"Y-You don't get it, do you?" His son shook his head, and he dipped down and snatched up his rucksack. "All this amnesia; all the lost memories and now and then I get snippets; _small_ snippets in dreams and I've always been **desperate** to know more - to know why I am the way I am and now you _find_ me and you tell me that I'm not even - that I'm the proper definition of a _freak_." He choked. "It's not that I don't care, I **do**. I care that I'm finally meeting my father for what feels like the first time but all this, and that-" He edged back, spreading the distance between them. "It's conflicting, because I _want_ to know you but _this_ is too much. Right now, it's all **too** much."

"Alright." John deadpanned, the tone in his voice flattening out. "I've unfairly burdened you with knowledge that's going to change your life. How _dare_ I try to help you; but I'm already sodding this whole 'father' thing up. I had it right the first time, but things _change_." With a trembling finger he pointed to the door, and hinted towards it. "Like I said, go. You've got a date tonight, and you've got a family to go home to. I won't dare burden you with my hopeless attempt at trying to care."

"But-"

" _Steven_ , it's fine. Utterly, fine. I said you're welcome to go, so there's the door." Not wasting any more time, John stormed towards the doorway, but stopped as he came shoulder to shoulder with Stevran. "There's tea and food in the kitchen if you need it. Bathroom's down the hall, and here-" He dug around in his pocket, retrieved what he was after and slapped it into Stevran's surprised hand. "Is fifteen pounds to get you back home." He sighed heavily, and turned his gaze towards the doorway leading out into the stairwell. "Drop by when you see fit." He huffed. " _Alright_." He gave a sharp nod, and went on his way, not even offering so much as a goodbye and leaving his son in a rather confused and emotionally compromised state, only listening to the sound of footsteps trudging heavily as his father ascended the stairs and slammed the door shut behind him.

Steven of course, couldn't seem to do anything but stand there in shock. At some point or another he'd slid down against the wall and sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to _move_. What was he to do? Leave? That seemed like the best option, but he still couldn't find the energy to just up and leave. On the contrary, he wanted to panic. He wanted to throw up, or hyperventilate or do _something_ but he was incapable of doing even that. He was different, his biological father apparently had the same limited patience as his own son and had stormed off to his room, and he now had a heavy secret on his shoulders that he couldn't even tell his _girlfriend_.

And now, he was alone in the living room of a _strangers_ flat.

And he was _terrified._

Sherlock could only hear the bare minimum of what was being discussed in the sitting room. He could hear John's raised voice and he knew that the elder was getting angry annoyed, and hurt, all rolled into one. When that happened, it was never a good thing. That seemed to be the perpetual state that Sherlock was always in-save for hurt, of course, because that simply didn't _happen_ to Sherlock Holmes (at least, he wouldn't often admit it to people, because he always needed to maintain his pride)-and it was normal for it to happen to John, too. What wasn't normal was the fact that it was happening right in front of John's son, and while Sherlock didn't care about the boy, such as he was, he knew that John did. He knew that John would regret ever being cross with him.

And, for reasons he couldn't even explain or recognise, that made Sherlock feel that he needed to step in. That he needed to do _something_ for the sake of them both, the two aliens that were now in his life.

Sherlock wondered if Stevran was going to stay or go. As of now, of course, he was staying, but Sherlock and John had both left and were in their respective rooms. That made John impossible to get to without either communicating via text or walking past Stevran to get out of the flat and go up to John's room. Even if he did go upstairs to see John, though, Sherlock didn't know what he would say. He didn't know how he would comfort John. He wasn't that sort of man. If it were something he knew about-such as promising a client that he _would_ solve their case-that would be different. With John, though, Sherlock didn't want to make any promises. Not about this.

Not yet. Sherlock wouldn't leave his bedroom just yet. Stevran needed time; John needed time. They both needed to cool off, and truth be told, Sherlock did, too. Even though he was lying on his bed and reading, he felt his heart racing, and his hands clenched and unclenched into and out of fists. He was conflicted, completely and utterly. A part of him that he had never acknowledged before was telling him to go up and talk to John, ask him how he was doing, assure him that Stevran would come around after he'd had enough time to accept the inevitable. Another part of him-the dominant part of him, the part that he preferred and the part that he presented-told him to either ignore John or go upstairs and lecture him.

That was what Sherlock would normally have done. He would have said sod it and left John to clean up his own mess, with Sherlock, maybe, providing assistance with the expectation of favours or praise to come afterwards. This time, he decided that he would do the opposite of what came naturally to him. He would go and ask John if he was-all right.

He knew that John wasn't, of course, but Sherlock wasn't sure what else to _say_.

Sherlock waited five minutes before he got up from his bed. That is, he deliberated with himself for five minutes. He tried t talk himself out of it, only to convince himself back into it, for five minutes. When he left his bedroom and returned to the sitting room, Stevran was still there, his head in his hands. Sherlock couldn't see whether or not the boy was actually crying, but his breaths were shaky and his body was trembling.

Before going upstairs, Sherlock went into the kitchen and boiled water for tea. He walked one into the sitting room and set it down on the table closest to Stevran's chair (it didn't seem that the younger man even realised that Sherlock was in the room). With a resolved sigh, Sherlock took the other two cups of tea upstairs.

Just like the last time, Sherlock walked right into John's room, not bothering to knock or ask for permission to come in.

"Here," he mumbled, walking one of the glasses over to John's desk. He set it down and then raised the other to his lips as he turned to stare out the window. The sun had set already, but the street was still lit by the lamps and the headlights and tail-lights of cars. Baker Street was always so _busy_. It was strange to be looking down at the people, now, because Sherlock knew none of them had any real idea that alien life existed. Superstitions, perhaps, but no concrete proof. None of them knew that there were two real-life aliens only a few yards away from them in the flat of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes.

They would never know that. Even if Stevran was somehow discovered, the chance that he would be traced back to John was slim. Knowing John, he would do something foolish like try to offer himself up in place of Stevran, which would only result in _both_ of them being held and studied.

As a scientist, Sherlock could imagine the sort of things that would be done to John. X-rays, EKGs, many, many taken vials of blood, MRIs, electrocardiograms, psychological assessments, CT scans, reflex tests, exploratory surgery...really anything and everything that the medical community could come up with. Society would want to learn all they could about the alien, and John would be expected to give them all the answers. If he was unable to, people either wouldn't believe him or they would harass him-or worse-until he told them what they wanted to know. They would demand that he get in touch with his own people, demand that humans be allowed to 'make contact'. They would ask John questions about outer space and expect him to know _everything_.

Sherlock might actually pity him for it. And, during all that, the detective would be left without a partner. It would hurt his own reputation, he imagined. 'Sherlock Holmes is the greatest detective of all time, but if he's so observant, how come he didn't know that the man he _lived_ with was an alien?'

It was a perfectly valid question. One that Sherlock didn't have a good answer to. The most truthful answer would be to say that John had succeeded in pulling the wool over his eyes, successful in deceiving Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock's pride was far too great to go around telling people that.

"He'll come around," Sherlock told the doctor. It was the kindest thing he could think to say, and it _was_ his best attempt at encouraging John. At _comforting_ him. He turned around so he could face John and cleared his throat, flicking his wrist as if to wave off the awkward afternoon (and the horrible past three weeks) that they had been experiencing.

"After all, he does not have a choice. I believe he is in shock. I would suggest that you keep a watchful eye on him for the next several hours. He may be tempted to make a very...poor decision."

Suicide, that is.

"Then again, you probably know all of that already, Doctor."

 _He hates me. I'm a bad father. If I hadn't decided to be so reckless and to take a scenic route, I would be alive. My wife would be alive, and I'd have my son and the daughter that was stripped from my life._

Turbulent thoughts surged through into the deepest recesses of his mind as he lay on his bed with his back sinking down into the mattress, and one leg bent over the side and just tiptoeing with the floor. He shouldn't have been so brash with the boy, for it wasn't his fault. It was John's fault. John had to continuously bring himself mentally in check and it was strenuously taxing. He wanted to hold him, calm him down and be there as any father should. He was _once_ such a doting father to his child, but generally the male of his species was far more 'maternal' anyhow. The female merely contained the eggs to enable a child to be conceived, but the male spent six months of gestation whilst emotionally and chemically bonding to the foetus inside of them. It was a rare display of 'sharing' that rarely occurred throughout the universe (ironically though, seahorses had a similar arrangement with the creation of their brood), but one that John felt entirely normal and comfortable with.

But right now, normal and comfortable were two things that John felt incapable of identifying with. His life had changed in insurmountable ways since he'd crashed into that field on that fateful night, and for most of his life he'd felt as though he'd done nothing but spiral down into oblivion. Of course his medical training and knowledge had been paramount to his lie of having attended a medical school on _Earth_ , and certainly being in the Queen's Army had given him a surge of life that hadn't felt in a long, long time but following his injury in Afghanistan, life hadn't gotten any better. He had no wife, no son, no place to call home and his funds were dwindling as his depression only worsened. At one point or another, the gun in his drawer _had_ seemed like the only solution and by God, he would have pulled the trigger that night.

If he'd not met Sherlock, that is.

A human; a simple bloody human who didn't even know that the Earth revolved around the _Sun_! He'd once admitted that even he could appreciate all the stars in the sky but as he'd often assure John, it wasn't worth storing into his cerebrum as a valid fact to withdraw on at a later date. He was stubborn, he was incredibly crass and his standard of hygiene (while utterly impeccable when it came to that on a personal level) was questionable when it came to the state of the flat and _what_ body part of the month happened to be festering in the fridge that day.

But oh, how he was _brilliant_.

The deductive reasoning was unlike any other methodology he'd been faced across in all of the Universe that he'd seen. He'd met professors, scientists and professionals in their field whose knowledge far outstretched that of a 'human' based on their increased capacity to learn and grow in what they knew. But humans were so far _behind_ ; a genius in their race was considered to be a miraculous marvel but to a member of John's own, it was but a person who happened to be a 'little' bit brighter than all the rest. John was by no means the smartest of his kind and he was likely even considered to be average and boring, but he was a skilful doctor, chemist and scientist in his own right.

"Ah, thanks."

He'd heard the door swivel open and bounce against the latch as it swung back, but he didn't dare peek up. Instead, his hands lightly rose and fell back on his stomach as he stared up blankly at the ceiling. He could hear the light footsteps patter against the woodwork and near the window, and after a few moments of silent contemplation, he let the air escape his chest as he rose to a seated position with his hands splayed out against the sheets. But with back turned to Sherlock, all he could muster up was a slight head-tilt as he peered wearily over his shoulder.

"Poor decision. Suicide, you mean. Because I, of course, was suicidal." He murmured coldly, his eyes blankly falling down to the floor and his shoulders slumped as they followed suit. "I get the reference, thanks." _Cool it mate, he was making a point. You were wrong, he was right. Deal with it._

"Sorry." _Apologise, and move on_. "I'm sorry, I'm **sorry**." He stood up, shaking his head as he moved back and forth in an agitated pace. "Yes, he's in shock. My own son is downstairs, in shock and can I do a single thing about it? No. I think it's fair to say that 'Father of the Year' won't be awarded to myself anytime soon, that's for sure." He looked to be in utter despair as glistening eyes never strayed from Sherlock's own, and heaven forbid, the suffering father couldn't handle his friendship with Sherlock crumble any further. If he didn't have his son, he still had Sherlock. He'd _always_ had Sherlock to keep him above water, and he needed him now more than he ever had before.

"Then, there's _you_." He brushed a hand down the side of his face; his panic evidently clear. "You're mad, and I lied. And yes, I _know_ that it was wrong and I made a promise to never keep you in the dark again and I will **never** go back on that promise. I can't _lose_ you, Sherlock. And I know you think you're suddenly a third wheel; and hell, perhaps that's the case. Perhaps throwing my offspring into the mix isn't doing us any favours but I suppose that's one of the reasons I never tried harder to seek him out. I loved - I _love_ him and would do anything to get him back into my life, but you can't seem to realise that I love **you** , and losing you from my life isn't a bloody option. It's not. I won't allow it. I _can't_ live my life without you, and it would be selfish of me to try and mend a relationship with my son that was severed with the crash. It's not fair to you, and to him."

 _And in a perfect world, I suppose I'd have the opportunity to try and mend our relationship on both fronts._

"But as I said, I _owe_ you. I owe you answers to all the secrets I've denied you since I met you." He stepped forward, and practically fronted Sherlock until their faces were but a small length apart. "Blood tests, skin samples. You name it, I'll provide. You want to go to the lab _right_ _now_ and cut off my arm for the name of science? I won't stop you. By all means, you've got time? Let's go."

Sherlock stood still and quiet while John ranted. And yes, that was exactly what he was doing-ranting. Going on and on, from topic to topic, complaining and whining and venting. Sherlock understood why John felt the need to do so. After all, he felt the exact same way. Both of them were experiencing the phenomenon known as 'life isn't fair'.

For Sherlock, it presented itself as him feeling like an idiot and being blindsided by that massive blow to his pride. Rather than be in awe of John and curious to learn everything there was to know about him, Sherlock wanted to pretend that none of it existed. He wanted to pretend like he _hadn't_ completely missed the fact that his flatmate is an alien, because that was just too bloody humiliating to admit to himself. On the other hand, John had finally reconnected with the son he had lost years ago, only to be met with fear and disgust from him. Stevran appeared to want nothing to do with John, and considering that Sherlock was acting the same way, he probably felt alone, as if he truly was going to lose the only two people he had.

Sherlock didn't know what to say to John. All of this involved comforting, and everyone who knew him knew that he was rubbish at it. He could fake it, if a role called for it, but this wasn't a role. It wasn't fake. That was ironic, considering that John was an _alien,_ something that Sherlock had never even thought about, much less believed in, until three weeks ago. The most unlikely possibility, in this case-Sherlock would have even been tempted to say that it was impossible-was the _right_ one.

As he breathed in slowly, giving himself time to collect his thoughts and ensure that he could keep his voice controlled as he spoke (something he nor John was always successful at), Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. He drummed his fingers against his bicep and stared down at John. John was bloody right in front of him, no doubt demanding a response.

Take him up on his offer, Sherlock told himself. Don't turn down the opportunity to learn just because you feel like a fool. You'll look like an even bigger idiot if you do; it'll draw _attention_ to your foolishness if you do. Just take his damn samples and learn as much as you can.

"Samples, then," Sherlock agreed. "Blood, of course. Also urine, semen, a scale or two, and a few hairs from your tail. That should be sufficient for now, but I will be sure to let you know if there is anything else I feel I need."

There. All in all, that was the easy part. Now Sherlock had to deal with John's... _feelings_. His emotional feelings, dammit. Not his physical ones. Those were really so much easier. The detective wet his lips, once again stalling for time. he hated how often he was doing that, now, but he wanted to at least try and say the right things. Unfortunately, he didn't know what the right thing to say in this situation _was_.

"I am still angry," he began. "And I don't think I will ever stop being angry about this. It was-it _is_ -very unpleasant, as I'm sure you can imagine, to hear that you have been lied to, constantly, for the entire time you have known someone. However, I do understand that you felt you had no choice. I just hope you understand that I do not necessarily feel that I can trust you right now. At least, not with some things. I would still trust you with my life, but when you say you will be honest with me...it is a bit more difficult to believe. Do you understand?"

Not waiting for John to respond, Sherlock continued, "That is also why I struggle to believe you when you discuss this 'bond' nonsense, or when you talk about wanting me in your life so badly. It seems to me that you are panicking. Do not bother denying it; we both know that you are. Stevran, Steven, whatever his name is, he also knows it. You are panicking because you believe that he and I are both going to leave you, alone, and that you will have nothing-or, more specifically, no-one-to live for. That is incorrect. Even if he and I _did_ both leave you, you would still have Mrs. Hudson, Harriet, Mike Stamford. Lestrade, Molly. I'm sure you also have mates from the army. You would not be _alone_ , John. It would be a readjustment and nothing more."

There. Those were the cold, hard facts, presented as kindly and encouragingly as Sherlock Holmes could manage.

After clearing his throat, he stepped closer to John, just slightly so.

"I do not wish for you to be out of my life. I am just-struggling, with all of this. I am sure Stevran will say the same thing, once he has calmed down. He was presented with quite a bit of information all at once. Perhaps it would have been better if you had only told him that you were his father, first, and then later told him about what would happen." Sherlock shrugged, flicking his wrist. "Not that it matters, now. What is done is done."

Sherlock was being completely honest, blunt, but also-he hoped-comforting. He had never cared about being so before, but this time, he actually wanted to be. It wasn't as unpleasant a feeling as he had assumed it would be, but Sherlock still couldn't imagine himself ever turning into a comforting, gentle man.

That just wasn't _him_.

"Do you feel better, now?"

"Bart's. Tomorrow. Preferably four or five in the evening. If you're going to take samples, it's better if I run you through a step by step physical; understanding what you're going to lodge beneath a microscope is key." Silence carried on following his shirtfront against the beanpole, but he took a heaving breath and let both hands fall on his hips as he dipped his head down to display the obvious level of mental fatigue that he was experiencing at present. "And, yes." He felt the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to centre his thoughts and regain his composure, but being within Sherlock's personal space was mildly intimidating and he felt it rather troublesome to keep himself _level_.

"Yes, I understand." He said, albeit incredibly calmly. "And _yes_ , I feel better. Not brilliant, but not sour. We've got plenty of work to do in terms of where we're both going to go from here, but I feel... Fine." Wrong. He didn't feel fine. He felt upset, terrible, vile, guilty and whatever else came with the package of lying to a man that lived his life with the mindset that he knew _everything_. Quite frankly, John could see how suddenly introducing 'aliens' in the mix was actually rather rude. John had been sitting on a goldmine of secrets and he'd kept the whole bloody thing _all_ to himself. All of it, and Sherlock had been wafting through their friendship none the wiser. Keeping that perspective in mind, John could easily see how Sherlock could be so incredibly _hurt_ from all this, and it made sense.

But being as stubborn as John was, he was also rather adamant in his opinion of _how_ he felt about Sherlock; about how he truly and deeply cared for the man in a way that made him practically irreplaceable, and that now amount of time spent with Molly, Lestrade or anyone else could fill in that gap. There were two special people in John's life and the _only_ two who truly mattered (as selfish as that sounded), yet Sherlock was spending far too much time being 'Sherlock' to truly acknowledge feelies from both parties. If the man dug his foot in the sand, there was little John could do to pry him away from that thought process.

"Actually..." _Don't push it, John_.

 _Leave it._

"I understand how you feel, I do. But I don't believe you understand how **I** feel." _Oh, sod_. "I can acknowledge and atone for my mistakes, and I can apologise until the sun rises and goes down but you just _don't_ get it. You don't, and you're being a bloody stubborn sod about it. How do you think I can just **replace** you? Why do you keep trying to write off this _bond_ as a novelty? The _te'nysha_ isn't a 'fad', Sherlock. I couldn't give a rat's arse if you can't feel it." He pointed his finger furiously at his own chest, and then poked it against the location of Sherlock's heart, his finger slightly depressing the thick wool of the Belstaff. "I can. I _can_ , and sod you for not caring, Sherlock. Sod you for assuming that I'd just find another 'friend'. _Sod,_ ** _you_**."

It was at that point that John did something where he acted without thought; his hand thrusting forward with splayed fingers in what felt like footage in slow motion as he extended his arm towards the subject of his grief. He didn't planned on doing it; he wasn't even sure if _anything_ could happen, but suddenly he had his hand in a soft grip behind the nape of Sherlock's neck which crept up further behind the lower aspect of his skull. Tension and fear aside, he used his hand to dip Sherlock's head down and suddenly foreheads touched - but not painfully, and it barely felt like a gentle tap as John's mind and vision were suddenly shrouded in haze; his mind being pulled to another place and Sherlock's own being brought along for the ride.

But to _where_ in John's thoughts, he hadn't a clue. He hadn't done this before, and he was aware he could do this, but it felt as though he had almost acted upon a natural urge or instinct that had risen from the deep recesses of his mind at the last available moment.

John could feel himself standing and he was aware of his corporeal form as he stood, yet he was far invested in the endlessness of his mind that seemed to span on for an immeasurable distance. It was dark, but there were moments that whizzed by where the brilliance of the light was just far too overwhelming to look at. He wasn't entirely in control of his mind as the pair remained connected, but a muddled mixture of vibrance and darkness chaotically mashed together until the chaos slowly began to melt and fall into shapes and figures that scrolled by like images on an old movie, but moving with a small time delay. John felt as though he could scream all he wanted, but the emptiness of this _place_ merely absorbed the words, thoughts and feelings as they were thrown onto a public sphere for Sherlock to see; his emotions included.

But as confused as the onslaught of images, colours and words may have been, clarity was close at it's wake and not far behind.

And as if by a miracle, everything suddenly just became so _serene_.

 _Sherlock?_

For a moment, not even for a fraction of a millisecond, John could _see_ Sherlock in his thoughts. They were level; completely eye to eye and everything was just in such a _perfect_ place. John didn't want to leave; he wanted to stay and just remain as calm as he'd wanted to be in a long, long time.

But all good things must come to an end (or so they say), for the energy bouncing off between both parties began to fill the endless fields of his mind until the clarity was suddenly overtaken by a vengeful clash as both their minds between to furiously intertwine. Memories of birthday parties where a very young boy with curly raven-coloured hair refused to play with his guests came into his view, but as quickly as it came, he was now faced with a much older adolescent-version of the boy he'd seen, but partaking in some rather unorthodox 'weekend' activities (heroin and marijuana, for a start). But for each and every memory he saw, Sherlock was seeing a random smattering of memories that happened to be brought to centre stage, ranging from a time where he was running late for his own graduation from his Medical program, to the time he'd turned up late to his own Birth ceremony for Stevran. And that was but the tip of the iceberg, for seconds that passed felt like a small eternity as memory after memory swapped and shared with either person as the connection continued to remain strong and strengthen with each passing second. He was seeing more, _feeling_ more and could feel his body tremble as every single emotion that Sherlock had ever felt starting gushing through like a geyser, including the indescribable pain that he'd faced when he'd first been dragged off to his first Rehab facility out in the countryside.

 _Stop, stop,_ ** _stop_** _._

 _ **STOP**_ _._

He wanted to let go; why couldn't he let go so easily? His blood pressure was starting to skyrocket and the images flicked through faster and faster in his mind until all he could see was a blur, but each memory he saw from Sherlock stuck in his mind like glue. His respirations were short and sharp and he was bordering on hyperventilation, and sweat lined and streamed over his skin whilst they remained interlocked in their current entranced state of mind. He could see why he'd never tried this before, but he was starting to worry for Sherlock's welfare by this point and he _had_ to find a way to stop. There _had_ to be a way to break the connection before either of the two got seriously, terribly hurt.

 _ **FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, JUST. LET. GO.**_

"-Hell!" He fell back with a stagger and tripped in such an impressive display that he tumbled back and fell without pause. His head ached before the fall, and it just added insult to injury when he hit the side of the bed with a sickening ' _thwack_ ' as the bedpost collided with his left temple. Blood streamed down the side of his face as he hit the ground, hard. He must have had a few solid seconds of consciousness before succumbing to the direct result of a nasty blow to the head. It wasn't how he thought this night would pan out, but perhaps knocking himself out after being (unintentionally) mentally invasive wasn't such a terrible thing after all. He'd seen _so_ much of Sherlock's life, but he'd not been aware as to what Sherlock himself had seen; hell, he'd not even been truly sure as to why he'd latched on in the first place.

But as it stood, he'd crossed the line.

 _Again_.

In the interim, Stevran had spent the majority of his time downstairs mulling over his options as he found the need to prepare himself a cup of peppermint tea before departing. It was his 'thing' if he'd ever been stressed; he'd make tea, and somehow that seemed to dull the anxiety and put him back on his path to sorting things out. It wouldn't solve all his problems, but it would at least sort _one_ of them out.

The boy was still utterly shaken, especially given what he'd been told and _shown_ in the space of a night. This strange man and his 'live in' had crashed into him, whisked him away to Baker Street and had told him something entirely indisputable and had left him with something unable to prove against. He believed the man, and that wasn't the problem. He _felt_ in his heart that this man was exactly who he said he was, but he just couldn't wrap his head around it. An alien. This _man_ was an alien, which automatically made Steven an alien by default. That meant that he was born amongst the stars and on an entirely different _planet_ , and to think; humans had enough trouble just getting off this damned rock so they could hover around in orbit for a few weeks at a time. It was insane, ridiculous but it was real. He'd always had a firm belief that humans could never quite be so _alone_ in such a brilliantly expansive universe, but to think that _he_ was exactly the thing he'd always believed in... And his father - his _biological_ father; it just blew his mind.

But it also made him feel sick. He was meant to go on a _date_ tonight, and clearly that was out of the question. He pondered the possibility that he could just study, but even then, he didn't think he'd be able to focus. All he could do was sip his tea, sigh and pace apprehensively as he covered the small distance of the kitchen floor with the mug carefully poised in his hand. He couldn't stay; he didn't **want** to stay, but he couldn't just let this opportunity walk out of his life. If he was going to change, and soon - then it made sense that the only person in his life who could _help_ was the one he should gravitate towards. If this 'John' - his _father_ \- had the serum to prevent his changes, he'd need his help without doubt.

But he had two sisters; a loving father and mother and a _girlfriend_. He had career prospects and it wasn't as though he was the first child who had ever been adopted before. But it wasn't about the adoption, he reminded himself; it was purely about the 'alien'... Thing. It was about the fact that he had a _sac_ in his chest; or about the fact that his tail was starting to hurt. He shouldn't even _have_ a tail; or now, he supposed he should. But Samantha looked past that, and she wasn't just his girlfriend, but an incredible friend who would go out of her way to do anything for him, even if that meant putting his needs before hers (despite Steven telling her otherwise).

"I need to do this." He whispered beneath his breath, and he leaned over the kitchen counter and pressed his forehead against a clean chopping board. "It's this, or spending the next phase of my life locked up in a broom closet. Sam wouldn't approve."

Snatching a spare shred of paper lying loosely on the bench, he trembled as he dipped for a pen from his pocket and began to write. First impressions were always incredibly important (especially when it came to his Med School interviews), but he was always optimistic enough to assume that things could always get _better_. And it wasn't as though he'd be betraying his adopted ( _real_ ) family by engaging in this essential partnership with this 'John' - he needed to do it. It was all about need, and right now, he needed this.

 _ **To John, and Sherlock.**_

 _ **I think it's fair to say that tonight was a disaster. No point sugarcoating the facts, it was horrid.**_

 _ **But, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't mine, either. It's clear that you didn't abandon me by choice, but it's clear that you've no idea how to approach this situation with a touch of sensitivity. Aliens? Seriously? On a scale from '1' being 'you have cancer' to '10' being 'you're a wizard, Harry' - this is about a '34'. You told me I was an alien, and I'm not denying that. But honestly, if you think that I can just be /okay/ with that, you really need to self-evaluate your ability of interacting with other people.**_

 _ **I'll scribble my number at the end of this note, but I'll drop by tomorrow about four. If you don't want me there, fine. Text me, I won't come.**_

 _ **And before you think that we're going to be all 'chummy' like any father and son should be, don't. Francis Harold is my father, Bernadette Harold is my mother and I treat my sisters as though they were my flesh and blood. I have a family, 'John', and I don't want a new one.**_

 _ **But - for me to understand my condition, I need to understand you. And for me to understand you, I need to know you.**_

 _ **Both of you, actually. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't a tad interested in your casework, 'Sherlock'. I must say, the Blind Banker had me on my toes. Or the Speckled Blonde - that wasn't too bad. But I have to agree with your blogger on this one, you do tend to come across as being spectacularly ignorant.**_

 _ **Alright, I'm off. Tomorrow at four.**_

 _ **Steven Harold.**_

Upon completion of his letter, he slipped it easily under a small beaker and made a quick dip out the front door; totally unaware to the heavy thud coming from the room upstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

Although Mycroft was perfectly aware of the demands of his job, sometimes even _he_ felt that he was being asked to do the impossible. He never told anyone, preferring instead to keep his head down and get straight to work (after all, nothing would be accomplished if he didn't), but there did come the few-and-far-between occasion when he would seek outside assistance.

Sherlock's assistance.

Mycroft was never thrilled with the prospect of asking his brother to do something for him. Sherlock would, before anything else, complain. He would say that he was 'oh so busy', make up lies just for the sake of making Mycroft _beg_ (although that was a strong word for what Mycroft would ever actually do). He and Mycroft would sit and talk calmly, staring at one another, and eventually Sherlock would groan and hold out his hand until Mycroft put the case file directly into it.

Mycroft never gave Sherlock assignments unless he knew that the boy—that was how Mycroft would always see his brother; a _boy_ —would enjoy them. Sherlock would be too stubborn to take them otherwise, unwilling to help Mycroft just for the sake of doing his elder brother a favour, despite the fact that Mycroft had done _many_ over the years for him.

Sending him to rehab. Renting a flat for him. Buying him groceries and clothes. Getting him out of trouble over and over and over again. Sherlock never once thanked him, but Mycroft wasn't so petty to demand that the words be said. He only wished that Sherlock would, once in a blue moon, show his gratitude by doing something he didn't want to for Mycroft. Mycroft had done it more than enough for him.

This particular case that Mycroft was going to offer to his brother was one that he knew Sherlock would be quick to accept. It was in Glasgow, four women who had been found in local parks, decapitated. Normally Mycroft didn't take notice of such crimes, but these women were all directly related to politicians, either their daughters (two) or their mother or sister. It may or may not have been an act of domestic terrorism that would escalate in ferocity, but Mycroft didn't want to take the chance.

That was why he was sitting in one of his sleek black cars, peering out the window and wishing that he was doing something besides asking his brother to take a case.

When the car stopped in front of 221 Baker Street, Mycroft waited for the driver to get out and come around to open his door. Mycroft lifted himself up and slid out of the car with as much grace as he could manage, then instructed that the driver remain parked in front of the building. He couldn't imagine it would take long, after all. Sherlock enjoyed gruesome murders. He had ever since he was a little boy.

Which, in many ways, he still was.

Sherlock was irresponsible. He was selfish. He was immature and entitled; he always tried so damn hard to impress everybody just so they would praise him and make him feel special. Mycroft had never understood it, himself. Why would anybody care so much about impressing a world filled with idiots? What joy was there in boasting about one's intelligence when there was really no competition to be had?

Mycroft was Sherlock's only competition, but even that was putting it generously. Mycroft was smarter. He was cleverer. He was mentally quicker. He had a far better memory; he was able to pick up on things more easily. Sherlock was brilliant compared to the average man, but to Mycroft he was _slow_.

With his briefcase in hand, Mycroft walked up to the door of his brother's flat. He had just lifted his hand, in which he held a key, to the door (after adjusting the knocker so it was straight, and yes, of course he had his own; he would take every measure possible to avoid Sherlock's _batty_ landlady) when it suddenly burst open and a young man tore out of the building, brushing past him without saying so much as 'excuse me'. He looked panicked and ill, pale in the face but sweating and breathing quickly. Mycroft's first thought was that he was a burglar, but he had no possessions and there were no marks of self-defense on him. The lights were on upstairs so Mycroft knew his brother and Doctor Watson were home. They would have heard him; they would have fought him.

Of course, it was entirely possible that the man was only a client whom Sherlock had angered. It happened often. Too often, in Mycroft's not-so-humble opinion. Sherlock had yet to learn that one did not always need to voice every thought they had about another individual.

Mycroft walked up the steps slowly. When he arrived into the sitting room, he lifted an eyebrow, surprised to see neither Sherlock nor John sitting there. There was a chair sitting near the two armchairs; obviously the man had been a client and his brother and John had been talking to him. And yet, they were nowhere to be seen.

It was then that Mycroft heard two thumps coming from upstairs. One, loud, hollow, and then another that sounded exactly the same, but a fraction louder.

Mycroft was, for the most part, a calm man. He was not one to lose his head over the slightest of things, and even under extreme pressure he looked serene, completely in control. Even so, he had to admit that he was a bit—concerned, when he heard those thumps, especially because his brother and John were both nowhere to be seen. Despite going straight upstairs, Mycroft took a speedy detour into his brother's bedroom. There was a book on the bed and the blankets had recently been mussed up, as if someone had been lying on them, but when he touched them he found that they were cold. Subconsciously—Sherlock would blame it on his apparent OCD—Mycroft smoothed the covers out.

Upstairs it was, then.

He was already preparing himself for the worse. If both men were upstairs and they had suddenly collapsed, what could that mean? Had the young man killed them? Were his brother and Watson being _intimate_? The thought made Mycroft sneer, and he honestly couldn't decide which idea he found to be more detestable.

Mycroft cut through the kitchen to go upstairs. His eyes caught sight of a sheet of paper that began very curiously—addressed to both John and his brother, and saying that 'tonight was a disaster'.

It could only be from the young man who had left. Mycroft had been in the process of pulling out his phone to dial for medical assistance, but the more of the note he read, he found himself lowering his phone.

' _You told me I was an alien, and I'm not denying that.'_

' _I have a family, 'John', and I don't want a new one.'_

The letter was obviously addressed chiefly to John. Mention of Sherlock seemed to be an afterthought, or something added in simply for the sake of being polite. That wasn't what really caught Mycroft's attention, though.

Mycroft folded the letter and put it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He would learn more about this Steven Harold character in time, but his primary concern was Sherlock. He moved up the steps as quickly as he could with his fitness level—or lack thereof—and opened the door to John's room after knocking and receiving no immediate response.

"Sherlock?"

It took Mycroft less than a second before he had his mobile out once more and was pressing 'two' on it, speed-dial to alert his own people that he needed medical care, _now_. The average response time for a London ambulance was seven minutes. For Mycroft's private medical care, it was closer to four.

 _Alien. Alien. Alien._

The word kept repeating itself over and over in Mycroft's head. He didn't have time to think about it now, not when he was staring at two unconscious bodies lying on the floor. It would come as no surprise to anyone that Mycroft stepped right over John and crouched down beside his brother. He held his hand in front of Sherlock's mouth, relieved to find that he was breathing, albeit a bit wheezily. The relief was short-lived, however, when he pressed his fingertips to Sherlock's carotid artery and calculated his heart-rate being at one-hundred and eighty beats per minute. While Mycroft wasn't a medical man, he knew that wasn't normal. Sherlock's heart was beating so fast that _Mycroft_ had barely been able to keep up with it to count it. His brother, like John, also had blood on his face, a bit that had smeared onto his forehead from his temple, where he had fallen on his side.

Perhaps the worst part of it all was that Sherlock was shaking. He was unresponsive, despite Mycroft's attempts at getting his attention. His body was tensed but it would not stop _trembling_.

Someone had done this to the both of them, then? Sherlock was an idiot, but he wouldn't hurt John Watson. Mycroft had confidence in that. Mycroft knew that he had drugged the doctor before, but it was only with something harmless. Sherlock had never even knocked _Mycroft_ out cold, and the elder Holmes had been, on more than one occasion, the one who was dragging him out of drug dens, carrying Sherlock over his shoulder, high as a kite and screaming and struggling to get free.

It was possible that John had done this to Sherlock—but then, why would he also injure himself? It may have been an accident, or John may have done it in order to cover up the fact that he was the one responsible. Either way, Mycroft took the opportunity to look over John's body. If he was really an 'alien', there would be signs of it, no?

Fortunately for Mycroft, it was easy to find. John's trousers had been pulled down only slightly from the fall, and Mycroft could see a few hairs where they shouldn't have been. Mycroft normally didn't like touching people, not even his family, but this was a different set of circumstances entirely. He pulled John's trousers down, just enough to see what was very obviously a _tail_ growing from the base of his spine.

It was true, then. It _had_ to be. John Watson was an alien.

Mycroft heard heavy feet thumping on the downstairs steps. He straightened himself up, after pulling John's trousers back up to a decent resting point, and wiped his hands on his own trousers. As soon as the medical team entered the room, Mycroft gestured towards his brother.

"Take him to the hospital."

They nodded and immediately set to work taking Sherlock's vitals and loaded him onto a stretcher. One of the paramedics, a nurse by the name of Kathryn Blake, who had worked for Mycroft for many years, looked from Sherlock to John, and then lifted his eyes to the elder Holmes.

"And this one, Sir?"

Mycroft didn't respond right away. He had not yet been given adequate time to think through all of this. John Watson was an _alien_ , and he had done something to Sherlock, intentionally or unintentionally hurting himself in the process. Had he intended to hurt Sherlock, or had that been unintentional, too? What was it that he had done? _Why_ had he done it, whatever 'it' was?

"Him, too," Mycroft decided. "I want you to look him over, Blake. Report back to me regarding his status and injuries. If he needs to see a physician, I will choose one myself. Beyond that, you do not let anyone evaluate him. Understood?"

Blake nodded. "Of course, Sir."

Mycroft followed the medical team as they left. Sherlock was already in an ambulance and on his way to a private hospital, where security was high and the staff was confidential and skilled. John was loaded into a second ambulance and sent to same.

Despite caring not being an advantage, Mycroft got back into his car and instructed his driver to take him there. He would be able to speak with Sherlock when he woke up, but even more important was speaking with John Watson. He was an _alien_. _That_ was what Mycroft was focused on right now. Sherlock was in capable hands; if there was anything that could be done to help him, it would be. Mycroft needed answers, though, and he could only get them from John.

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft was sitting in a chair three yards away from John's hospital bed. If anyone saw him there, they may have thought that Mycroft was more worried about John's well-being than he was his own brother's, which was a ridiculous idea, of course. He had told Blake to alert him on Sherlock's status as soon as she found out anything. Mycroft just wanted to ensure that he would be the first and only one who spoke with him.

In addition to the usual IVs, the alien was strapped down by his wrists and ankles, just as a precautionary measure, and there were two armed guards outside. Nobody was going to get in and nobody was going to get out without Mycroft's approval.

As he sat there, Mycroft realised that he had got his wish. After all, he was now doing something besides asking his brother to take a case. It seemed they had both found one without even meaning to.

* * *

"Remarkable."

"Just, remarkable."

The last thing Doctor David Tenford had expected on a Thursday evening was to be sent a pager on a highly restricted network, given the fact that his nights were usually so dull. There wasn't a great deal of text in the message, but he'd had enough prior training which enabled him to recognise that he was to get adequately dressed and be waiting out the front of his flat in the next ten minutes, but really; his first inclination when he saw the coded message was to call up MI6 and demand the nature of his sudden 'assignment'. He felt a bit silly, really; as skilled of a surgeon as he was, he was far from a James Bond or a super secret 'spy'. He'd seen all the movies and considered himself to be somewhat of a 'super spy' buff, but he'd only really accepted the Government's offer to stay 'on call' because it offered just that little bit more pay. And not only that, but he felt a little bit of pride in knowing that his assistance in any assigned secretive 'mission' was only further serving both Queen and country.

So alas, he'd thrown on some respectable clothes, kissed his children and wife farewell for the night and stepped out onto the empty pavement in the harsh chill of the winter night. The ominously intimidating black automobile had been waiting as promised, and he was ushered into the back without being given a chance to question or query. Instead, he remained quiet and watched the world pass him by from tinted windows that shrouded him into obscurity.

And there'd be a time in that journey when he'd considered the possibility that all the red-tape surrounding his impending task could simply be something as standard as a callout from the Department of Disease Control. The notorious Ebola had been causing a few passing concerns from time to time from travellers returning to the UK from West Africa. but bringing in one of the country's most skilled surgeons to consult on a potential Ebola case wasn't the usual standard practice when it came to monitoring and containing the incidence and prevalence of a deadly, infectious disease.

So, couldn't be Ebola.

But if not Ebola, then what? Was there a new, synthetic pathogen that had been genetically constructed in a lab for the purpose of biowarfare? But that wouldn't make sense, because he wasn't a geneticist, or technically a scientist. He was a man of medicine; a veteran in his field and had been for the past twenty eight years. He was far more suited to exploratory surgery as opposed to exploring one's entire genome.

And so, the rest of the cab ride had left the man despairingly confused. And from confusion, that eventually evolved into weak expectations and thoughts about how the rest of the night would be just another patient he'd have to treat; possibly even a government official or somebody that frequented the political public eye who wished to keep a rather embarrassing ailment under wraps.

Yes, it's likely that. Bloody politicians and all this 'hush hush'.

Of course, the middle-aged man was so very poorly mistaken.

The debrief from a fairly attractive, well groomed lady who only identified herself as 'Anthea' had presented herself to Dr. Tenford at the door of a rather lucrative private hospital in central London with a clipboard attached paper held confidently in her hands. Not a smile was given as she handed him both the clipboard instructed her guest to follow him, and the pair were suddenly on route through a maze of pristinely white corridors and corners that appeared to span on indefinitely. There'd be a time when an orderly or nurse would pass by, but this particular floor of the private hospital was rather vacant, it seemed. Vacant, but the equipment in this facility appeared to be top notch, and he hadn't even had a chance to view the operating theatre (if they even had one, that is).

"So, I -"

Upon approaching a room that had the doorway flanked by a guard on each side, his escort paused and spun on her heel, her face expressionless and her demeanour somewhat hardened.

"Read the paper I've provided you, and sign at the bottom. Everything you see, hear and witness in this hospital and with regards to your patient are highly confidential." She deadpanned. "If you are found to inform anyone, pass on any information or attempt to bring this to the attention of the media, you will be promptly incarcerated for the duration of your life, is that understood?"

"Well, I suppose-" He'd swallowed thickly, and scribbled his signature across the bottom. 'Anthea' was quick to snatch it back.

"You are to perform an examination on the patient, and verbally record your findings. He is, at present, unconscious but has been further sedated and restrained to prevent any... Interruptions." She appeared a little conflicted at the last statement, but pressed on. "Both guards will be stationed outside the door for your protection, and his. You have thirty minutes, Doctor Tenford, by which I will have expected you to conclude the initial examination. After of which, I will attend to receive your findings and you will be escorted back to your residence until further instruction is given at later date. Is that understood?"

"Crystal."

A sharp nod had been her only response and she'd promptly disappeared from view with the sound of her heels clicking against the polished linoleum floor, leaving a very anxious but extremely curious doctor who had yet to see his patient.

And once he entered the moderately sized room, he had not wasted a single second more; it was time to examine and do his job.

"This is Doctor David Tenford, the date is Thursday, 4th of July 2015 and the time is 7:45pm. Examination of the subject has commenced..." He'd popped on a pair of gloves and had parted the front of the hospital-issue robes as he began to palpate and explore the skin. "Patient has already been tended to by paramedics for a superficial head wound to the left temple; seven stitches, holding together quite nicely." He brushed his fingers through John's sandy blonde and greying hair as he felt for any bumps or possible cracks in the skull, but his eyes trailed up as he saw a series of X-Rays lit up and situated on the nearby wall. "Upon analysis of X-Rays taken also at an earlier date, there are no signs of fractures and / or dislocations. Patient is -" He paused, and narrowed his eyes at the images closely. "Presenting with three extra costa on both sides, and-" He paused again, and frowned. "And an extension of his sacral vertebrae that do not appear to fuse at the coccyx. A physical examination of this area will now take place."

The patient had been undressed and had nothing beneath the single layer of fabric that made up his gown, and despite being restrained it was relatively easy to tip him precariously on his side. As he ruffled up the robe which displayed his backside, he had to swallow his fear and breath heavily at the surprise that greeted him. "P-Patient..." He took a moment or two to recompose himself, and gently ran his hands down the length of the unknown appendage. "Patient presents with an appendage representing that of a tail." He breathed, his fingers pressing through the sandy-coloured fur that had random streaks of black, grey and darker shades of brown. "The shape of the tail bears similarity to that of an alpine fox, however the length appears to be more proportionate to the body. Forty five centimetres in length, but accuracy is yet to be determined. The tail is entirely covered with an animal-like fur." He was truly starting to see why they'd gone to all this trouble to keep this so secret, but he hadn't been this giddy in years. He honestly, truly felt like an intern again, starting out for the first time and analysing each patient with such a new and youthful eye.

Minutes passed and he continued to examine the patient from head to toe, going as far as analysing the man's genitalia, to prodding and poking each and every aspect of his lower abdominal region. So far, he'd identified at least three organs that were slightly out of place, two that weren't there at all (spleen and pancreas, for a start), and one that he didn't even recognise. He'd observed some rather unusual marks across the skin surrounding his navel (almost as if the skin had been stretched), but as hands went searching higher and more superior to that, he swallowed thickly as he came across a rather unusual anatomical feature.

"Upon initial inspection the patient presented with a linear, twenty-five centimetre laceration across his chest and below his pectorals." Taking bravery in his stride, he tucked a few fingers carefully beneath the opening, and delicately parted the folds as he peered inside. "Fascinating." He murmured, and brought out a penlight as he illuminated the cavity with widening eyes. "Patient displays some sort of sac with a visible dark, purple liquid pooling at the base. Possibly related to the visible stretch-marks identified more inferior to this sac, and may bear gestational properties. Does not appear to be a wound by any means. Similar to a pouch identified in that of Australian marsupials."

"Patient is simply... Remarkable."

The examination went on a similar path for the duration of his allocated half-hour time and he'd made sure to appropriately roll back down the hospital gown to cover the necessities upon completion, but once he'd recorded all of his findings he was promptly ushered to the door by one of the guards, and Anthea was there as promised. He handed over the recorder (albeit, a little reluctantly) which Anthea would promptly pass on to her boss, and as warned, he was guided back to an awaiting car out at the front door of the hospital. But even as he watched the world pass him by from the car (yet again), he had a very strong inkling that his job wasn't over quite just yet.

* * *

There was nasty breeze wafting and ticking at the base of his feet, and John felt an unsettling chill that caused his body to tremble. The cold was never his friend, but in his haze he could only assume that Sherlock had left the window open, again. "Shr'lock." He drawled, but his tongue couldn't seem to shape the words as fast as brain was instructing. "Cl'se the win.." He loosely ran his tongue over his teeth, but his mouth felt so dry. And his eyelids felt like cement, but he couldn't recall having a bender of a night with Greg as of late so he certainly wasn't hungover.

"Close..." He yawned, and clenched his eyes shut to ward off the horribly illuminating halogens that beamed heavily from up above. "The window... You're letting a draft... In." Fluttering open his eyes wasn't so easy when they felt as though a hippopotamus was sitting right on them (not that he'd know what that was like), but at first glance, all he could see was a blur. It was so bright in here, and a hazy figure was sitting across from him, but not too far away.

Hold on a minute.

Since when did we get halogens?

Halogens, and a EKG machine, as hinted by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat that rang through the machine beside him. And not only that, but the distinctive smell of antiseptic and disinfectant.

How had he not picked up on that? He worked in a clinic for Christ's sake; he spent more time at Bart's than he did his own flat, and he was a doctor. A surgeon, actually. His vision might have been temporarily skewed, but he was in a hospital. Something had happened, and his head (as if on cue) started to throb. The blips of his heartbeat began to run faster as apprehension began to set in; this wasn't right, none of this was right. Had he been in an accident? Had he-

Oh.

Oh.

The room, Sherlock, his memories and Sherlock's memories. All of it had clashed like a car crash and given the fact that he was lying on a hospital bed (which was very, very bad), something had gone extremely wrong. And if John had been injured, the blatant fear that Sherlock had been mentally maimed was enough to make bile start bubbling up in John's core. He felt sick; he just wanted to find Sherlock and help. The bond that he could feel, he knew Sherlock was alive but he also felt something else. Something additional that hadn't been there before; pain. But, it wasn't his pain. Be it emotional or physical, he couldn't even ascertain which. He just knew that Sherlock was nearby, and suffering.

"Sher-Sherlock. Sherlock?" He went to push himself off of the bed, but something was wrong. He felt a jarring motion, and so he remained on his back.

"No, no, no." His vision began to clear but he was met with the pale, cream coloured tiles and linear halogens that lined the hospital ceiling. He dipped his heard forward and took note of the shadowed figure, whose features still seemed to be blurred from his view. "Who-" Eyes clenched shut, he shook his head and ignored the nagging throb that radiated through his temple. Blinking rapidly seemed to dissipate the fogginess, and the man who sat over in the visitors chair gradually began to take shape; the finer features of his creased brow and blatantly obvious concern written all over him.

But really, the mahogany cane should have a dead giveaway.

Mycroft?

He should have been terrified, or furious. But in truth, John had never been happier to see such a familiar face.

"M-Mycroft. Good. You're here, good." He rasped, his voice hoarse and weak; but filled with desperation. "Listen - I think something happened to Sherlock. You need to tell me his condition. Tell me how he is. And-" He pulled both hands up, but the restraints served as a fairly decent preventative. "I believe the restraints are a little dramatic, don't you think?"

He pulled at his ankles, but he was met with the same obstruction. And with the hope of having this situation resolved, the realisation of Mycroft not being here for his aid was starting to sink in slowly, but steadily.

"Mycroft?"

His eyes flickered from the 'Ice Man' to the walls, where he briefly surveyed the X-Rays that had been performed on his body in segments.

X-Rays. Hospital robe. Grogginess from sedation. Restraints.

This wasn't right.

"Oh."

John was an alien who had been admitted to a hospital. He'd been treated for a head wound, he'd had X-Rays performed and based on the fact that he'd been de-robed, he'd been given a physical examination. And now, Mycroft was here. A man who claimed to partake in a 'minor' Governmental role and would rather be monitoring the state of the United Kingdom as opposed to John's own private affairs. But that said, anything concerning his younger brother generally concerned John, and anything that concerned Sherlock usually concerned Mycroft (to a point).

"Look." He swallowed thickly, his voice thick with uncertainty and the subtle undertones of fear evident in his tone. "Mycroft, listen." Ugh, he hated this. He was helpless; he, John Watson, was practically a prisoner. Seemed fitting though, that a hospital was such a place to keep him captive, but he had doubts that he'd be kept in such a public place for much longer - especially if Mycroft wasn't satisfied with granting John the freedom he so desired.

"Mycroft." He had to be tactful about this; he had to play his cards right. Mycroft had the power to ruin his life, but he also had the ability to grant him lenience. "I, well-" You're not making a very good case for yourself, John. Sherlock would be appalled.

"Firstly, the restraints. You don't need them. For Christ's sake, you know me!"

He gave his wrists a hoist just to emphasise his point, but his gaze never left Mycroft's own. "And before you start pulling the 'oh, but are you really John Watson' card, don't. I've heard it all from Sherlock, and I get it. I lied. I lied, and I was wrong. I'm the bad guy, I stuffed it all up, and aside from my military duty in Afghanistan, most of my life is a lie. Happy? Is that what you want to hear?" He snarled; the man sounded angry, but his eyes told another story entirely. "That's why I'm in the restraints, yes? You've already deemed me a threat. I'll make a wager that you've even signed off on my paperwork to have me carted off to a restricted facility, yes?"

For Heaven's sake, John - don't push it.

"Cut me up, have my organs carted off to the most luxurious laboratories around the world? I believe there's an excellent one in France; I can forward you the details if you'd prefer. But wait, you want to talk, right?" He frowned. "You're not here for me, you're here for National Security. You're here to see where I've got my Armada parked, or if I'm here to infiltrate on a mission of reconnaissance. Surely, the mere notion that I'm here by accident is far beyond your thought process, for you've already made up your mind, correct?

"I suppose if you consider me to be a threat, there's no point in arguing." He murmured, and dipped his head back and stared up blankly at the ceiling. "You're a stubborn old sod, and I'm naive to think otherwise.

"But if you think that I'll do so much as 'cooperate', you can go sod it."

Mycroft had never been overly fond of John Watson. As a matter of fact, the only real positive impact that the little man had in his life was the fact that John cared about his little brother. Even that, though, wasn't enough to make Mycroft actually like him. All it ever did was make Mycroft want to _use_ him.

So when John started talking, Mycroft didn't respond. He barely even paid attention. He heard everything that John was saying, but Mycroft tuned him out.

It was all insufferable, anyway.

' _Surely the mere notion that I'm here by accident is far beyond your thought process.'_

' _You're a stubborn old sod.'_

' _You've already deemed me a threat. I'll make a wager that you've even signed off on my paperwork to have me carted off to a restricted facility, yes?'_

' _For Christ's sake, you know me!'_

Mycroft didn't feel that he had ever 'known' John Watson. He knew things about the man, but that was different than actually knowing him, wasn't it? Knowing him would imply that they had some sort of interpersonal relationship. Mycroft didn't have those with _anybody_. Some days he felt that he didn't even know his own brother, just because they never sat down and spoke with one another about themselves. They talked about work, occasionally about their parents or other family members, and that was about it. Neither of them _wanted_ to open up in any other way.

There was only one thing keeping Mycroft here, and that was his desire to be the very first person who actually spoke to John. So far, the only ones who knew what John was were Tenford, Blake, and the X-ray technician, a harmless, elderly woman by the name of Jamie Croix.

Anthea knew too, of course. Mycroft trusted her more than he did anyone else, even more than he did Sherlock. He would trust Sherlock to solve a case if one was presented to him, for the most part, but he wouldn't trust Sherlock with confidential information. He wouldn't even trust Sherlock with his life. They had developed so much bad blood between them over the years. There was resentment on both of their parts, but Mycroft was much more willing to move past it than Sherlock. Sherlock was immature, holding on to his anger because he didn't want to appear weak by forgiving his brother.

Forgiving him for _what_ , anyway? Yes, Mycroft had forced Sherlock to go away to rehab (three times) against his will. Was that really such a terrible thing, wanting his brother to be bloody healthy? And, yes, Mycroft had always been hard on his brother. He had set high standards and expressed disappointment when Sherlock didn't meet or surpass them. He had only ever done it with the intention of encouraging Sherlock to be the very best he could be. If his brother didn't catch on to that, well. It was hardly _Mycroft's_ fault that he was too stupid to see.

Sherlock had always been such a stupid little boy.

John Watson was the one who was being stupid, now. Of course Mycroft had entertained the idea of sending him away to a lab, and performing exploratory surgery on him. He hadn't ruled it out, but he did decide that it wasn't going to happen just yet. There were other things on Mycroft's mind, other things that he was making his priority.

One thing in particular—his brother, lying in the hospital bed in the room right across the hall from John's, hooked up to various machines. Comatose.

Four doctors had looked over Sherlock since they had arrived at the hospital. They didn't know what was causing his condition. Beyond the gash on his head, which wasn't even all _that_ serious, they couldn't determine why his blood pressure and pulse were high. They couldn't agree on the reason for his unconscious state. Because of that, Mycroft found it difficult to consider the lot of them anything other than useless.

Mycroft waited patiently for John to finish rambling before he spoke. He looked up at John, one eyebrow lifted, and set his phone down, his fingers laced together and resting on his knee.

"Do calm yourself, Doctor Watson."

As if saying that would actually make it happen.

"I feel I should inform you that I have read every text message exchanged between yourself and my brother regarding this…newfound information. The records have been since deleted, of course."

Mycroft held up his hand to prevent John from speaking. If there was anything that annoyed him—there were many, _many_ things that rubbed Mycroft the wrong way—being interrupted was one of those things.

"I have also taken it upon myself to bring in a certain Steven—Stevran—Harold in for…" Mycroft turned his hand in a circle, the telltale sign of advising someone to finish the thought on their own, or that the speaker was trying to find a delicate way to do so. In this case, it was more of the latter, but really Mycroft was just trying to get John on edge more so than he already was.

"Questioning, shall we say."

That had gone without a hitch. All Mycroft had done was order Anthea to watch the CCTV footage of the man who had bumped into him as he entered Baker Street. They had gone to his location and taken him; now he was being held in private flat in Brixton until Mycroft decided what to do with him. As of right now, he wasn't feeling inclined to do anything that would benefit either him or John.

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again, lightly drumming the fingers of his left hand against the arm of the chair. John was frightened. Mycroft could tell. He was trying very hard to not show it, but Mycroft still _knew_. Anybody would be at least a bit apprehensive when they didn't know what their future held, especially if a family member was involved.

"As you are, as you claim, a medical man, whether on your world or on ours, I assume that means you can repair the damage you have done to my brother. He is in a coma, Doctor Watson, and there is not a doubt in my mind that you are the one who put him into such a state. Whether you did it intentionally or not remains to be seen, but until I am convinced otherwise, I am inclined to err towards the former."

Mycroft stood up and walked over to the window. The patient could see out of it, but nobody could see in. Not that it mattered; John was on one of the higher levels. Even so, there was no harm in exercising reasonable precautions. Or even unreasonable ones.

With his hands behind his back, Mycroft kept his gaze out the window. He had already looked at John, seen his alien appendages, and he didn't care to see any more of them. While Mycroft did consider himself an open-minded person, he could also be the exact opposite when the mood struck him. Aliens! He had never thought about their existence, really, but now that he had living and breathing proof of them, he was intrigued, a bit.

Sherlock's feelings were hurt to the point that he didn't even want to learn about John's species, really. Mycroft had read their texts and he knew his brother; he knew that Sherlock only asked the questions to save face, to appear as if he wasn't as affected by everything as he was. Mycroft, on the other hand, wasn't affected at all. He felt no sense of betrayal. His _feelings_ weren't hurt. He did, now, believe that he didn't trust Doctor Watson with his brother, really, but even that he was on the fence about. Up until this point, John had never done anything to hurt Sherlock. He had even saved his life on their first case. He had made Sherlock eat; he had cleaned up after him. He had looked for drugs in the flat when Mycroft told him to, he had refused to give information about Sherlock's doings.

Everything pointed to the alien being trustworthy, right up until he had revealed what he was.

Before Mycroft could speak again, he was interrupted by a soft rapping on the door. Elizabeth Jenkins, one of the four doctors who had looked over Sherlock, was standing outside of the door. Mycroft gestured for the guards to let her enter inside (John was covered, after all). When the door was pulled inside, both men stood right in front of it, preventing John from leaving if he had tried.

"Yes?"

Jenkins was a timid young woman, barely thirty years old. She licked her lips and glanced up at Mycroft, only to promptly look away from him and down at her clipboard instead. She flipped through the pages, peaking at her notes and trying to decipher her own writing; it was true, doctors had the _worst_ handwriting…

"Doctor Jenkins."

Mycroft didn't have time for this tomfoolery. He had little to no sympathy for nervous individuals. When he was her age, he had met the Queen of England, the Prime Minister, and the United States President without so much as a flinch. They were, after all, only people, and Mycroft had known that his power would surpass their own sooner than later.

He had been right.

" _Jenkins_."

The woman jumped, startled, and she looked up at Mycroft, pushing her glasses further up on her nose. "Yes, Sir, sorry—sorry Sir. Um. Your brother—no, that's not—I mean—Mr. Holmes, we just got the results of his EEG."

Mycroft rolled his eyes as discreetly as possible and offered the girl a minute flash of a smile (fake, of course).

"Get to the point, please."

"The point," Jenkins repeated after a moment of hesitation. She nodded her head, as if the idea was the most fantastic one she had ever heard, as if she never would have considered to do it on her own. "Yes, yes, of course. The point. Okay, the point. Um, we've put him at a four on the GCS. That's Glasgow Coma Scale, in case you didn't…right, so, he's a four. He's in a deep, deep coma, but he's not in it _so_ deep that his brain is showing no activity."

Mycroft hummed softly. His phone buzzed inside his trouser pocket and he reached for it, glancing over the received email as he spoke again, sounding bored and uninterested as he drawled, "And what activity is it showing, then?"

"Pain."

Jenkins was able to spit that word out quickly enough, although she looked regretful for even having to say it in the first place.

"He is in pain," she continued. Now that she was in her element, able to talk about the medicine rather than having to face, for the first time, a man she had heard so many rumours about, she felt more confident.

"A lot of it. We've given him medication but it hasn't even scratched the surface. The others are trying to work out a cocktail for him right now. We don't want to give him _too_ much, because if his body wants to wake up but he's sedated, obviously it won't be able…anyway, it's not only pain that he's feeling. His EEG looked like a bloody Christmas tree. Different parts of it were lighting up. It was all over the place. It's like his mind is going crazy, like he's thinking about a billion things at once. The only thing that _wasn't_ registering was his response to stimuli. We poked and prodded at him, we tested his eyes, we spoke to him; he didn't register any of that, that we could tell."

"And when will he wake up? Is there any indication?"

The woman furrowed her brow and shook her head. She tried to smile sympathetically, and failed.

"I'm sorry, Sir. Nothing as of yet."

"Then go back to the others and figure out a way to fix this." Mycroft waved his hand towards the door and Jenkins promptly left, the guards standing aside for her and then immediately resuming their same positions.

Mycroft, meanwhile, looked back out the window. There was nothing of interest to stare at, but even the single bird flying by was preferable to stare at than the man in the hospital bed. Although Mycroft did value knowledge and logic above all else—save for Sherlock, although he would never admit to that—he wasn't going to ask the alien anything about himself just yet. Why?

Because he wanted to show John just how little he cared about him. As a person, as an alien, it didn't matter.

"My brother is in excruciating pain, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, steadily. Anyone who just heard him speak would think that he didn't give a damn about the very thing he was saying. "And his thoughts are out of control. _That_ hasn't happened to him since he was a child. It is why he turned to drugs."

Mycroft slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and only then turned to face the alien lying on the bed.

"What do you plan to do in order to clean up the mess you have made?"


	6. Chapter 6

From the moment where Mycroft had used sophisticated intimidation tactics to encourage John into the back of a black jag, he'd been weary of the elder Holmes. The man hadn't simply worked his way up to his privileged position by simply 'working hard'; he'd been cunning, likely incredibly manipulative and he had the Holmes intelligence backing his every move. He'd even overheard the iceman claiming he had the fortunate to be the smarter of the pair, and he'd never _actually_ heard Sherlock verbally deny that. Perhaps, there was some truth to Mycroft's frequented brags.

And aside from Mycroft consistently throwing his weight around, John usually had the luxury of being able to dodge his requests or orders with ease; and having Sherlock within his vicinity generally helped. Granted, there'd be a time or two when he'd reluctantly take on a case intended for the younger Holmes to solve, but Sherlock had always never been too far behind. Despite all reasonable doubt, denying a case just wasn't in his nature. But with that aside, John often _did_ wonder if it'd just been a sneaky way to 'train' John in the art of deductive methodology, but it was more than likely that the man was just lazy.

John was man enough to admit that he and Mycroft were _far_ from what you could call 'friends' (even colleagues), but he never considered that they shared bad blood between them. He'd even go so far as to admit that he'd formed somewhat of a weak fondness towards him as time had progressed. Key word, _weak_.

But oh, how easily things could change.

And so they had, apparently. The tides had turned; those intimidation tactics suddenly became...

Intimidating.

 _'I have also taken it upon myself to bring in a certain Steven—Stevran—Harold in for...'_

 _'Questioning, shall we say'._

Mycroft had laid down the first card, and John had to admit it's effectiveness. He felt his face visibly drop and his expression falter in simultaneous succession with his quickening heart. It shouldn't have surprised him, really, to find that Mycroft had the insight to take a stab at his heart; his achilees heel, he should say. The man had the resources and the knowhow to track down even the most elusive criminal in all of London, and he'd gone and snatched up an easy bargaining chip.

His son.

He'd taken the boy, possibly even had him plucked from his own home; a young man who had already been severely emotionally compromised and possibly even contemplating suicide, and he'd now been covertly _arrested_ and detained. So not only had his biological father ruined his life by presenting him with a daunting revelation as to his oncoming adolescent-related changes, but he'd put his own son in a position where his freedom and safety could be permanently removed from his life.

"If you have touched a hand on his bloody **head** -"

He didn't even get a chance to bring his case forward; Mycroft was one step ahead and had thrown a hand out to signal for his silence. He couldn't be reasoned with; he was a _tyrant_. A cruel, callous bastard who was willing to wave Stevran's life before his own so he could upgrade his position of power for the sake of keeping John in check. His muscled tensed and he balled his hands up into tightening fists, and his breathing became light, but a short breath occasionally slipped as he'd briefly lose all rhythm in his respiration rate. He couldn't argue, he couldn't move and he couldn't sock Mycroft in the jaw; he was _stuck_ , and helpless.

And _weak_.

His jaw clenched as Mycroft continued to calmly waffle on, and the anger levels were certainly rising in John. A subtle taste of iron running over his tongue gave John cause to believe that he'd bitten his bottom lip in the process; his body subsequently tensing to an uncomfortable rigidity as time went on.

But anger and fear for his son were suddenly met with grave concerns for another.

 _You can repair the damage you have done to my brother._

 _He is in a coma._

"A... Coma."

Despite Mycroft having the audacity to insinuate that John had done this on _purpose_ , it was always within Mycroft's nature to turn to family rather than foe. But alas, his accusations didn't change the fact that Sherlock was in a _coma_. And yes, it was due to John's carelessness, but it was by far _no means_ intentional. He hadn't meant to hurt Sherlock; but on that note, he wasn't quite sure _what_ he'd hoped to achieve. All he could recall was intervening with his son, arguing and pleading with Sherlock for forgiveness and thrusting his hand out and drawing their heads together and -

Memories, images, thoughts, feelings and _experiences_ had bombarded his mind like a relentless hurricane. What felt like hours had likely been seconds but during those seconds, he'd shared far more than just his mind whilst the pair had touched. He'd shared his _heart_ , thus cementing the bond for the end of their days.

The act itself had been an innocent one at that, commonly known as the ' _jey'shea virhern'_ in his native tongue. The act itself was loosely translated to being something along the lines of 'crossing of the hearts', and most commonly performed at the most intimate of occasions between those engaged in the contract of matrimony. But aside from moments of intimacy, parents and children could exchange a familial bond, which curiously changed the name of the procedure to ' _jey'shea virhaya',_ but the loose translation was still the same. The people of his race had a rather unique dialect and the language was just as complex, but his saving grace was the Translator-chip embedded in the auditory and speech areas in his cerebral cortex.

But Sherlock was neither a biological relation, nor was he John's official partner in a romantic context.

 _Sherlock_ _ **is**_ _family; he's always been my family._

Debates aside, both of those things weren't the issue. The issue **was** , that John had performed it without permission (strike _one_ ), and he'd performed it on an entirely different species (strike _two_ ). Plus, John had been so inexperienced and out of practice with the art of _jey'shea virhern_ that he hadn't known when to _stop_. In a perfect world, the instigator of the meld was meant to slowly coax himself and the other individual out of the trance in a peaceful, calm and relaxing manner. The exit was meant to be soothing, and without any absolute risk.

 _Lack of permission resulted in resistance._

 _Sherlock is human; we have different brains. Different 'wiring'._

 _I ripped our minds apart - I literally_ _ **tore**_ _us apart._

In that moment of clarity, he felt absolutely vile.

This **was** his fault, Sherlock being the way he was. Being forced and trapped into a coma because that was the only way his mind could likely deal with the bond. And given the medical knowledge that John had, his mind was already starting to concoct theories that attributed to the detectives present vegetative state. Intended or not, perhaps the restraints were appropriate. After all, Mycroft's extremely standoffish approach was starting to seem just that tad bit more reasonable, aside from unfairly incarcerating and putting the fear of God into his son.

And yes, he'd certainly get to that.

"Mycroft, I would _never_ -"

Again, interrupted, but not by Mycroft this time round. One of the attending specialists on site who was allegedly treating Sherlock received approval to enter, and John merely had a front row seat as he watched, waited and listened as Jenkins dropped crucial details about Sherlock's condition. John mentally listed each symptom in his mind, grimacing at the bombshell that Sherlock was _suffering_.

He was in **pain**.

Pain, that John had placed him in. From the sounds of it, Sherlock's mind was on _fire_ ; and there was no telling as to what damage the meld had caused. Had John placed his thoughts into some sort of endless loop, or had he burnt out Sherlock's mind like an overloaded fusebox? A brain from John's own species was in his mind, predictable; but a human brain? It was all a guessing game at this point. His mind could collapse and his body could follow suit, or he could simply remain as he was now, a vegetable. But John was fairly confident in his assumptions that by doing _nothing_ and not intervening would result in a lack of improvement, and Sherlock would be sentenced to a life stuck to his hospital bed with nothing but tubes and cables jutting out of his body day in, day out. But in reality, the human mind was only so strong, and working itself into overload and pulling itself into a state of hypertension was only going to lead to a burnout. They could sustain the body with life support, but sustaining an empty shell was moot.

All in all, this wasn't good. And as John would say, it was a 'bit not good', actually.

He hadn't realised that he'd practically been holding his breath for the duration of Doctor Jenkins ramble, but tensions eased (ever so slightly) when she departed from the room and the doors swung closed behind her; the two guards resuming their positions immediately.

And so, he could finally plead his case.

' _What do you plan to do in order to clean up the mess you have made?'_

Good question, actually. But the intimidation wasn't doing John any favours and those incredibly cold eyes were scrutinising John and picking him to bits. The next words to come out of John's mouth in the next few minutes had to be significantly worth it, especially if he planned on fixing up this cock-up of a situation he'd thrown himself, Sherlock _and_ Stevran in.

"It wasn't intentional. I didn't **mean** to hurt him, I would never-" He swallowed thickly, and he felt the bubbling anger return as he yanked heavily on the restraints latched around his wrists. "What happened, it wasn't... I could never-" This was terrible. The once confident Watson was finding it hard to even _find_ the words to plead his case, and Mycroft really had him in a bind. No matter what he could say, Mycroft wouldn't take it well.

John had lied, John was an alien and John had caused Sherlock pain; those were the only three facts that mattered.

"Do you honestly believe I would **want** to _hurt_ him?" He trembled as the words dripped off his tongue like poison, and he jerked at all four restraints as his calmness began to wane.

"This hurts me as much as it hurts you, Mycroft. To hear of his condition, to hear that you've impounded my son like some sort of _criminal_." He snarled. "And let me make myself **very** , very clear.

"You leave him out of this. Understood? He's not _involved_." He began, his breathing extremely controlled. "If you're going to punish someone, punish _me_. You want an autopsy? Take my body, but if touch a hair on his head, I'll kill you." Now, his teeth were practically clenched; and fury was written all across his brow.

Now that his minor threat had since been said, there remained the matter of the younger comatose Holmes.

"Now. Your _brother_." He was making every bloody effort to calm himself down, more-so for the fact that his levels of apprehension were quite on par with his guilt. "Obviously, you'll need me to go **to** him in order to try and **fix** him." He paused, but his focus never straying from the physical embodiment of the Government who stood near his bed. "And to _fix_ him, the restraints aren't going to help now, are they?" He sneered. "So let's take a step back and look at this logically, shall we? You need me to help, and lucky for you, I _want_ to help. I'd **love** to help, in fact. And I suppose it's not as though I have a say in the matter anyway; I mean, you've got a gun pointed to Stevran's head. Of _course_ , how could I say no?" He scoffed; his tone rife with sarcasm as a macabre chuckle followed.

"I'm afraid there's little I can do **or** tell you until you let me examine him, Mycroft." He stated in a 'matter-of-factly' tone. "Except for the fact that to repair the damage, it's very likely that I'll have to reconnect with his mind. If we do nothing, nothing gets fixed."

 _And he dies._

"But before **anything** happens, Mycroft - something needs to be said."

 _Just, just, don't._

 _Stevran - think of your_ _ **son**_ _._

"We've never seen eye to eye; I'm willing to acknowledge that - fine. You and me, we're two _very_ different people. Species aside, worlds apart, it makes no sodding difference. You're a pain in the arse, and true to my word, on my own planet and amongst any other races I've come across, I've never met _anyone_ quite as irritating as you. Honestly, I mean it. You're a prick in my side; a sodding _wanker_ , and I've always held the belief that you would personally give Hitler a run for his money if you ever ran your own dictatorship. But each to their own, I suppose." _Right, because he'll certainly appreciate you comparing him to a tyrant._

"But."

And _here_ came the kicker.

"Differences aside, I was almost under the impression that we had _both_ reached the level where we could see eye to eye. I mean, _hell_ ; you even started calling me 'John'. Can you believe it? A first name basis, _wow_." He scoffed. "We're not friends, but we've never been enemies, either. You and me, we've always been fighting for the greater good and I've _always_ been on your side, as you have on mine." His gaze fell to the floor, his demeanour now coming across as a little less clipped.

"When I connected with Sherlock, I saw - I _felt_ the love and respect that he has for you; mostly unconditional, of course." He shook his head. "Point is, all the things you've done for him, all the times you dragged him out of those drug dens and threw him in rehab; he never _hated_ you. A bit of resentment, I'll admit. There was even a bit of gratitude, believe it or not."

 _Rambling John, rambling._

"But when you were children, I _saw_ how deeply you cared for him. I saw the lengths you went to so you could keep him _safe_ ; I saw how worried you were when you thought he'd broken his arm after falling off the roof at your parent's Estate; I saw how furious you became when Redbeard accidentally bit Sherlock on the leg because he mistook him for a burglar, and I can still see your face when Sherlock was dragged into the back of an ambulance after his first OD on heroin. You don't need to deny it, I know how deeply you care for him, I _know_.

"So I can understand your resentment towards me; me, what I did to Sherlock - seeing him the way he is, and knowing I did that."

His eyes rose to greet Mycroft once more, but they were underlined with a subtle red, accompanied by a moist glaze over the whites of his eyes. "But I _want_ to save him, and fix this. I want my son back, and I want this madness to end. **Now**. Today, alright? Things can go back to the way they were, you just have to give me a bloody **chance!** "

There was absolutely no change on Mycroft's face as John spoke. John was trying to, what? Frighten him, by struggling against his restraints? It wasn't working. If John had freed himself, all Mycroft would have to do was call for the guards and they would be in the room in only a matter of seconds. No, Mycroft wasn't afraid of John Watson. He never had been.

What he _was_ feeling towards the man was disdain. Disdain, distrust, annoyance, and anger. Mycroft didn't believe John's words about not doing what he had done to Sherlock on purpose. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't, but Mycroft, unlike his brother, was always one to err on the side of caution.

Caution was telling him that John had meant to harm his brother. Caution was telling him that releasing John's son would be a very unwise decision, especially because Mycroft didn't know what John would do to Sherlock.

 _If_ he allowed the alien to go to his brother in the first place.

John could very easily go and finish what he started. Kill Sherlock. Make it look unintentional. Accidental. Mycroft felt remarkably foolish for ever places any trust in John Watson in the first place. John had _seemed_ trustworthy, and Mycroft had been none the wiser. He was internally scolding himself, promising himself that he would never make such a mistake again, telling himself that he should have researched John Watson more _thoroughly_.

It was too late for that now. All Mycroft could do was try and fix his mistake.

Mycroft wondered what Sherlock would do if their positions were reversed. If Mycroft was the one in a coma, put into it by his best friend—not that Mycroft actually had a best friend, or any friend at all; the only relationship he _had_ was the one with Sherlock, and one could even hardly call it a relationship, as they really only saw one another when work needed to be done—then what would Sherlock do? Trust the one who had put him into the coma? Wait for a day, week, month, to see if his condition improved on its own?

Knowing Sherlock, he would do something stupid. That was not an insult to his brother, as such—it was simply a fact.

As John spoke, Mycroft continued to stare at him, looking at what little outline of his tail Mycroft could see, staring at his chest where he knew his 'pouch', as John had called it, was located. The thought of a male carrying a child disturbed him, but it was only because he wasn't use to the idea, obviously having been born and raised in a world where, in nearly every species, it was the female who produced the young. The difference was intriguing, but not enough that it made Mycroft want to ask John any questions.

None about his biology, anyway.

"You care more about your son than you do my brother," Mycroft said slowly. He wasn't sure if he actually believed that or not, but he damn well wanted John to believe that he did. "And yet you expect me to trust you to take care of him. You would say and do anything to get your son out of my possession, even if that meant risking my brother's life, wouldn't you?"

It was a test, but it was also a valid point that Mycroft believed to be true. John had certainly developed a newfound loyalty to the boy that he hadn't seen in years. Mycroft, surprisingly, knew what that was like. He had been Sherlock's father more than their actual father had been. He had always been there, trying to keep Sherlock out of trouble or at least get him out of it, cleaning up after Sherlock when he made messes (literal and figurative), making decisions on his behalf when Mycroft knew that his brother would make the wrong one as he so often did.

Knowing that John had seen parts of Sherlock's life—possibly even all of it, all of his memories, his experiences, his history, his thoughts, his feelings—made Mycroft feel…uneasy. There was a sourness in his stomach that wouldn't goa way, no matter how much he tried to talk it down with logic. It was an invasion on his brother's privacy, and even though Mycroft did the same thing, they were brothers. It was acceptable. When Mycroft did it, he had Sherlock's best interest in mind. John doing it was just—intrusive. Purposeless.

Fortunately, Mycroft had spent forty-five years honing his ability to keep a perfectly straight face. Knowing that John had seen that side of him, through Sherlock, was incredibly unpleasant. Mycroft and Sherlock both valued their privacy. The things that John was talking about, Redbeard biting Sherlock, him falling off the roof of their parents' estate—Sherlock wouldn't have told him those things, Mycroft was certain. That meant that John had actually _seen_ them. Sherlock's privacy had been violated. He had been _exposed_.

If he woke up, and if he remembered who he was, and if he knew what had happened, and if he was able to form a coherent train of thought—Mycroft could imagine that Sherlock would be very, _very_ displeased with the alien for doing what he did.

That was a good thing. It meant it would be easier to convince Sherlock to rid himself of John Watson once and for all. Sherlock was a sentimental fool, no matter how much he tried to deny and act otherwise. Compared to normal people, yes, he was cold, but compared to Mycroft he _was_ normal. It had always disappointed the elder Holmes, the fact that his brother couldn't completely reign in his emotions and learn to dismiss them. All Sherlock was capable of doing was pretending like he didn't have them.

Mycroft paced the length of the room, slowly. His arms were crossed over his chest, his gaze finally lowered towards the floor, rather than being directed at John. He was thinking. There were so many options, so many things that had to be handled delicately. John could kill Sherlock. He could demand to have his son released, first. Mycroft wasn't going to do that.

"I must admit that I do not feel inclined to trust you at the moment, Doctor Watson. You understand, I'm certain. While it is true that you have never done anything to severely harm my brother, one must now wonder about your true motives."

Mycroft paused just long enough to get his umbrella. He balanced the point on the ground and turned the handle of it in his hand, feeling that he needed something to occupy both his hands and body while he spoke.

"I have no assurance that you will not kill him the moment you lay your hand upon him. That is why I am hesitant to even allow you to do _that_. I have your son, yes, but what would stop you from killing my brother to spite me? Because you _care_ about him? Because you _love_ him?"

Mycroft sneered. He walked over to the bed and, supporting himself on the umbrella, leaned over it, lowering his voice to a hiss. While Mycroft never became physically violent, he certainly had a way of speaking, when he got _exceptionally_ furious—which he was now-, that could deliver just as painful a blow as a punch.

"You knew this would happen," he murmured, his face only about a foot away from John's, the words directed right into his ear. The accusatory, hateful words that Mycroft rarely ever spoke simply because he rarely ever _cared_ about something enough to get so personally involved.

"You knew that there was, at the very least, a possibility. Do not try to convince me otherwise because I will not believe you. I _know_ my brother. I know that he would not have given you his consent to do this to him. Sherlock values his pride above all else; had you not noticed? Perhaps you were too stupid too, just as he was too stupid to notice that you are not _human_."

Mycroft inhaled, slowly and softly, as if coming to a grand realization. "I had the excuse of no giving you the time of day. Sherlock lived with you. But then, he did trust you, didn't he? He must never have even thought about questioning anything you told him. Why would he? You're his _friend_ , aren't you, John? The only one he's ever had. The only one he ever _will_ have, now. After all, do you really believe he'll ever let himself become attached to anyone else ever again?"

Mycroft didn't believe Sherlock would, and he was never wrong.

The elder Holmes straightened himself up and walked back over to the window, looking out it once more as if he hadn't a care in the world. His brother was dying, potentially, across the hall, but Mycroft's face was stony. Blank. The words he had just hissed into John's ear had been filled with venom and fury, but anyone who just happened to glance in at Mycroft Holmes at that second would see a man who felt nothing but inner serenity.

"Perhaps I should try to extract information from your son," Mycroft mused, speaking innocently as though it was really just a passing thought. "He has been stricken with amnesia, yes, but I'm sure we can find a way around that. Blunt force trauma to the head, perhaps? Reminding him of his mother's death? Telling him about his unborn _sister_?"

Mycroft smirked, although it wasn't the sort of teasing, playful smirk that Sherlock was notorious for. Mycroft's was much more…sinister.

"Even if he cannot recall anything from his youth about what you may have done and how it is affecting Sherlock, at least we will learn about your species as a whole. I am quite certain it is _marvelous_ , John." The smirk on his lips widened, just so. "That's what you want me to call you, is it not? _John?_ "

The more Mycroft spoke, the angrier he got. His voice was still calm and he wasn't touching John or inflicting any physical harm on him, by any means, but he felt enraged. He was furious at himself for not researching John Watson more thoroughly, still; he was angry at John for doing what he had done, be it intentionally or not—and he was furious that John was giving him such an _attitude_ about it, as if he were positively faultless in this (at least, that was how Mycroft heard it, but in things such as this, one did tend to have selective hearing)—and he was furious at Sherlock for falling into such a foolish trap as _sentimentality_.

Mycroft moved back over to John's bed and peered down at him, one eyebrow raised, a pleasant, polite smile on his face.

"You said you would kill me if I touched a hair on his head. Fortunately, I do not condone physical violence. I will not lay a hand on him, myself. I pay people to do such things. And if you, John, _do_ kill me, do you think Sherlock will forgive you for it? After all, you said so yourself—he _loves_ me. Knowing that you killed the brother he loves to save the son you hadn't even been _searching_ for will surely make him feel even more like a mere pawn to you than he already does, don't you think? After all, Sherlock was the one who found Steven, not me. He only told you that in yet another vain effort to preserve his pride. He refused to let you know that he was doing something _kind_."

Mycroft's phone vibrated inside of his pocket. He got it out and skimmed over the message, then looked at John.

"I hope you have learned by now that nothing good will ever, _ever_ come from lying to Sherlock Holmes. Do believe me. I learned that lesson the hard way." Mycroft's smile widened, as if he were telling John, 'you're welcome for that valuable piece of wisdom I have just imparted upon you'.

"Have you any questions before I take my leave? As much as I have enjoyed our little— _chat_ —there _are_ other people and problems demanding my attention."

"Questions? No. But I have something to say."

 _You care more about your son than you do my brother._

John felt his heart wrench at the startlingly concrete insinuation that his love was taken by his son far more than it was by Sherlock, but a father's love for his child far differed to that of platonic or romantic love in this given context. In all the worlds that John had seen and in all the species that he'd encountered, a father had a naturally biologically ingrained instinct to fiercely protect his young. On his planet in particular, the father obviously bore a stronger chemical connection to the child that he'd gestate and nurture for the better portion of six months, but the notion of parenthood was uniquely dispersed between both mother and father. The mother would create, but the father would provide and protect. Many other native fauna shared such a relationship on his home world, but otherwise, it was a biological exchange that was fairly limited and unique to his home planet.

"Of course I care about my son." He said, but his words were treading through the conversation with an incredible degree of trepidation. "You don't have children, Mycroft. You couldn't possibly understand the love I feel for my child. The type of love that comes with being a father; the type of fear that results when I hear that a man I thought I could trust is planning on belting him across the side of the head to 'cure' his amnesia." He stared blankly at the wall, his gaze no longer fixed on Mycroft. Staring daggers at him wasn't going to help, nor was shouting. John was restrained and utterly helpless at this point, and whilst he'd never been the type to beg, the stakes had changed.

Sherlock was dying, and his son was in danger and something had to be done.

"So yes, I love my son." He closed his eyes to trap the moistness welling behind his lids. He could hide the pain in his eyes temporarily, but his voice told a different story. He sounded... Broken. Like a man who was bordering on contemplating his own suicide (which, he hadn't once been far from that), or a man who had simply lost everything.

And perhaps, he already had.

"I love him more than I do your brother, if that's what you want to hear. I love my son, and I loved my daughter." John was almost in disbelief at how crass the elder Holmes was being with respect to the child he'd lost, but this was Mycroft Holmes. He'd even gone so far as to make an unfair jibe at the loss of John's wife and the mother of his children, but fighting fire with fire wasn't a suitable tactic in this given scenario. He was the weaker one; his stubbornness would no longer save him. If he wanted to get through to the ice man, launching an assault wasn't going to work.

"My wife? Oh, I loved her to. Mari'asha, her name was. Worked as a nurse. Hated the colour yellow. Never wanted children, but then again, neither did I at one point." As he pictured the strawberry-blonde in his thoughts, his tension eased but a moment and he felt his shoulders soften against the hardness of the hospital-grade mattress. He'd long since mourned and grieved and had moved on from his loss long ago, but it still hurt.

Losing both his wife and that baby, it felt awful.

"I loved her, and my daughter, but I still love my son." He murmured softly, his fleeting moment of happiness starting to falter as reality set back in. "But, as for Sherlock?"

A lengthy pause, and that familiar tightness gripped his chest as his eyes slowly peeled back open; the redness of his fear and anguish written all over his face. "I love him. Love. He doesn't love me, of course. I know that." His wrists and ankles slumped loosely within the confines of his restraints.

"I'm well aware that Sherlock opened up to me in a way that he'd never done so beforehand. I'm aware that he instilled a certain degree of trust in me that he wouldn't have ever bothered to do before." Anxiety crept back into his voice as it intertwined with the fear that remained for his son's welfare, and his words became breathy and tiresome as he voiced out his plea. "Before I met him, I was so alone, Mycroft. I had nobody but a few close confidants; and even then, I wouldn't go so far as to call them my friends." Mike, perhaps. But Harry? Absolutely not.

"Meeting Sherlock wasn't how I thought the rest of my life on Earth would pan out. I wasn't planning on looking for a flat-share, not when I'd planned on-" Well, the details weren't important. That day had always stirred up particularly conflicting emotions within the doctor that he'd never quite discussed with Sherlock, but he'd always felt as though it didn't need to be said. "Point is, we connected. He found a friend, and I found another reason to live. I mean, I'd lost my entire family in a night-"

Or so I'd thought.

"My point is, that Sherlock filled in a particular emptiness that I'd had for a long, long time. Heaven forbid, that connection started to turn into something that you could almost call a..." He tried waving his hand around to demonstrate, but it hit the roughness of the restraints and he huffed out of annoyance. "Bond. A biological connection. Hard to describe and there's a few different subtypes but the point is, it exists. It's real. I can feel it... I can feel his fear, and I'm aware that I caused it. It was me." He was already on the warpath to honesty, so he figured that being as upfront as he could be might be enough to sway Mycroft to allow John to act.

"And the connection that I made - I can fix it. I know I can, you honestly just have to give me a chance." He begged. And yes, he was begging. "I don't want him dead. I don't want to kill him to spite you; for Christ's sake, you know I'd take a bullet for that man!" He needed to take a second or two to recompose himself; after all, he had to stay level headed. Mycroft didn't respond to violence, it seemed.

Actually, he didn't really respond to anything but a plea bargain; if that.

"Let me help. Let me fix the damage I've caused. Hold a gun to my head if you have to, but please." This time, he finally turned back to Mycroft, this time he appeared incredibly defeated and all hope was felt to be lost. "There's nothing to gain from hurting him; I'll fix him, make him well and then..."

With Mycroft, dealing with him all came down to a solid ultimatum.

"You can take me. I'll tell you everything I know; I'll cooperate. If you want me dead, you can have my body." This time, his hands clenched, but merely because wasn't entirely fond of the idea of giving up his freedom entirely. "I'll take you to the wreckage of my ship, and whatever technology that can be salvaged, you can have it. I'll even show you how it works." He lowered his head, his gaze filtering away as he felt that he could no longer sustain eye contact with his captor. "There's just one thing that I want - one thing that I am begging you to do, and I know I'm not in a position to make demands but if you could please just fulfil just one..."

"My son."

Mycroft's not going to bother; he's got me, and he's got Stevran. Why would he risk letting an alien go off into the middle of London to frolic and do whatever he likes? He's a liability to the country, if not the Earth. No, Mycroft won't be so accommodating; he's 'Mycroft'.

"He needs to take regular doses of a chemical solution to suppress his changes." Which reminded John; so did he. He had to take his own blend of formula every fourteen hours or so, and he was likely due for his next one within the next couple of hours. By skipping one, that ran the risk of gaining a tolerance to the concoction, and he wasn't keen on the idea of having to spend days in a lab to formulate the next batch that would keep him going for an indefinite amount of time. But John feared that he had not even a few hours or so, for his chest, back, shoulders and neck were starting to be irritated with a familiar itch, and come this time tomorrow (without any medication), he'd look exactly like the alien that he was.

Fur, scales and all.

"I can provide the formula, and I can provide the data. He's smart enough that he can do it on his own; I just need him to take it so he'll remain.." He swallowed thickly. 'Normal."

He felt terrible saying such a thing; on his home planet, Stevran would likely be every bit as handsome as his father. Well, that was a bit of a lie. John had always been a bit dumpy and short, but Stevran took after his mother. She was tall, leggy and waif-thin; and his son had already long since surpassed John in height.

"I know I'm asking a lot, but I'm willing to cooperate." He frowned. "I just... Look, he's just a kid. He's studying at Medical School, and he's incredibly bright. He has an adoptive family that will be worried sick about him, and he's never put a foot wrong. He doesn't get into trouble, he stays away from that stuff. But right now, he's terrified. He doesn't know what the hell is going on and he just wants to go back to his home.

"I've made a mistake and I'm willing to set things right. I'm willing you to offer up my life, even. But my son-" He had to keep his breathing steady so he wouldn't break down. He couldn't; not right in front of the ice man. "I just want you to let him go. Leave him be; please.

"I want to help."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. He still didn't believe he could trust John, but he knew that his options were limited. Either he took a risk—something that Mycroft didn't care to do but did, from time to time, have to—and trusted John with his brother's health, or he let Sherlock stay in his coma. In pain.

Neither option was good.

"It will break my brother's heart, hearing that you love your son more than you do him," Mycroft said, then shrugged. "Not that he hasn't already figured it out. Perhaps it really is best that I let both you and your son go, then. It will destroy my brother, but at least it will encourage him to keep away from you."

Mycroft smiled politely. "Not that he'll need any encouragement, after what you've done to him."

Sherlock would. He was forgiving, that idiot. Mycroft knew all about how the people at Scotland Yard treated his brother, and yet Sherlock continued to go in and assist them on cases. It was more for the puzzle than it was for their benefit, Mycroft knew that, but he could have just as easily focused solely on his private cases or even found kinder individuals at New Scotland Yard to work with.

Not that Mycroft knew anything about being _kind_. He knew how to fake it, and he knew what practical benefits it could offer, but he was, by no means, a genial man.

John was incorrect in saying that Mycroft didn't know how it felt to be a father, but he kept that to himself. Mycroft knew exactly how it felt. While it was true that he had no biological children of his own, he had always been incredibly mature for his age. Because of that, their parents, who were idiots—loving idiots, but idiots all the same—had oftentimes left to go on holiday or business trips, leaving Mycroft to watch over little Sherlock.

'If there's a problem, dear, just call the neighbours or Grandma! Everything will be _fine_!'

Mycroft hadn't had a childhood. He hadn't wanted one either, granted, but even if he had, he wouldn't have been given one. From the time Sherlock was born, Mycroft felt the boy was his responsibility. He taught Sherlock; he looked after him. He provided for him, either financially or otherwise. Mycroft considered himself to be more of a father to Sherlock than their real father had been.

Sherlock resented him for that. He resented Mycroft for raising him 'incorrectly', as he had put it as an angry teenager. Fortunately, Sherlock had grown out of blaming Mycroft for _that_ , but there were times when Mycroft still wondered if he had…done more harm than good, perhaps.

It had never been his intent, but it could very well have happened all the same. Even Mycroft Holmes made mistakes. Rarely, of course, but when he did make them, they were _huge_.

"You will help my brother," Mycroft told John, his voice completely aloof and detached. "If you are successful in doing so, I will release your son. If you are not, I will have him executed after being _thoroughly_ examined."

There was no use in threatening John himself. Mycroft knew it would hurt the alien far, far more if he were to be the cause of his son's torture and death, rather than actually dying himself. Besides, John would probably commit suicide, anyway, if that were to happen.

He did seem the type.

After replying to the message he had just received, saying that he wouldn't be back at the office for the duration of the day, Mycroft left John's hospital room, signaling to the guards standing by the door (and two additional ones) that he wanted John brought to Sherlock's. Mycroft crossed the hall and stood in the corner of his brother's room, leaning against the wall as he waited.

Of course, even as Sherlock lie there, he was completely oblivious to what was happening. He was in such excruciating pain that, had he been able to, he would have cried out. He would have been _thrashing_. Instead he was a prisoner inside of his own mind, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything.

And yet, he was thinking. None of the thoughts were of his choosing. Instead, they kept assaulting his mind, one right after another.

They weren't only thoughts, but memories. Not only memories, but emotions. Not only emotions, but reactions. And they weren't even his _own_. Some were. He saw, through his own eyes, himself when Redbeard was put down. He saw the first time he had accidentally walked in on his Uncle Rudy and saw the man wearing a short skirt (and _not_ pulling it off). He saw himself being bullied in primary school, and then again in secondary school. The difference between the years was that he had been a kind child— _sweet_ , even—when he was in primary school. Only a few years later, the very first time he was hit, Sherlock hit the other boy right back, right in his face.

That had continued on throughout his entire life. Sherlock wouldn't often start physical fights (unless it was during a four-year period when he had been active in an underground street-fighting ring to earn extra cash to buy drugs), but he had no qualms whatsoever about finishing them.

Whatever was happening to him, it was just as people said: his life was flashing before his eyes.

Was he dying?

He must be.

The strange thing, though, was that he was also seeing _John's_ memories. He saw, through John's eyes, when he first met the female who would become his future wife. Covered in scales and fur as she was, he could still _feel_ that John found her attractive. He saw Stevran in John's arms after he had been pulled free of John's pouch, fully formed and healthy, and could see a single tear drip from John's eyes onto the infant's body. He could hear alarms blaring and see lights flashing as the small spaceship entered into Earth's atmosphere, quaking and spiraling out of control, and then he felt his body convulse when the ship came into contact with the ground.

Then there was the heartbreaking revelation that both his daughter and wife were dead and his son was nowhere to be found.

 _Sherlock_ still didn't, personally, feel any real sadness in regard to that fact, but he could still tell exactly how John had felt. _Exactly_. There were more tears, this time, and a crushing weight that sat upon his chest, the sensation of his heart being ripped right out of his body and worms crawling about in his stomach.

It was awful. The onslaught of emotions was unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced before, and no matter how he tried to box things up in his mind palace, it simply _was not helping_. Every time he shoved one of John's memories or feelings into a closet, the door burst open and it was out again, right in his face and in the forefront of his mind. The rooms were being packed so tightly with so many things that Sherlock didn't _want_ that the walls started to crack and crumble; the furniture was shaking, books fell off the shelves, the staircases split. It was like a bloody earthquake, but it was all caused by _emotion_.

Emotions that weren't even his own.

Mycroft could only stand there, completely helpless, as his brother's monitor started to beep rapidly. Sherlock's heart rate and blood pressure were raising even higher, despite the sedation and medication that was constantly being fed to him through his IV.

Besides the first time Sherlock had overdosed, Mycroft couldn't think of a time when he had felt more useless.

The doors opened and two of the guards appeared, moving to stand on either side of the door, inside, so the other two could bring John in.

Mycroft was too disgusted to even look at the man.

"You want to help, Doctor Watson? Do it."

 _Showtime._

Even as he was roughly manhandled to his feet, _even_ as he was hoisted to his legs that now felt as though they had the consistency of jello, John felt that this fleeting moment of freedom was enough to given a him flickering moment of hope. His wrists and ankles ached terribly from the soft, subtle bruising that was only just starting to break through the skin, the colours mixing in a bodily pallets of brown, black and blue. As thrilled as he was to be on his feet and to feel the cool, pristine linoleum beneath him, a tight grip on each shoulder surged him forward. Mycroft certainly didn't hire his security detail based on intelligence, but these men were certainly all muscle and John wasn't particularly in the mood to fight back. Not to mention, he was rather disproportionately outnumbered, and being on the run wasn't quite the life he wanted to lead.

John's first observation as he was shuffled along the floor was that his muscles felt incredibly lax; wobbly, in fact. Each step was carefully calculated and taken with care, simply out of fear that one wrong move might cause him to stumble and fall. It didn't take much of a diagnosis to determine that the softness in his musculature, in conjunction with his dry mouth and his ill-focusing vision was likely due to being sedated; and by John's estimate, it would have had to have been within the last four to six hours. Understandable though, especially since his body had been subjected to X-Rays, ultrasounds and Lord-knows what else. For all he knew, somebody could have put a hand in his...

No, he grimaced at the thought. That part of his body was intimate; sacred, even. The very notion that a doctor or scientist plunged his gloved hands into the sac to poke around and inspect made him physically sick, but it seemed like a logical assumption to make. By all accounts and purposes, these 'doctors' had stumbled across a 'human' marsupial; of _course_ they were going to be curious. In their shoes, John would have been as giddy as an intern on their first spaceship.

But, that aside, it still felt wrong.

Step by step, John couldn't help but feel a sadly foreign sensation that brushed by his lower thighs; a feeling that he'd long since had the luxury to suppress for the better portion of a decade. No longer was his alien appendage strapped tightly to the skin of his thigh, for it moved freely and hung a little limp as the two guards who flanked him on either side physically 'encouraged' him to keep going. It had long since been an age where he'd just let it 'hang out', so to speak; he'd keep it tightly bound during the day, and only let it out liberally right before bed. A decade-long duration with this approach hadn't really been that considerate to his spine, but staying uncomfortable as opposed to being exposed was a preferable option. Although in this instance, he really didn't have to worry about the latter.

He'd already gone and sodded that all up.

"Happy to help, _Mycroft_."

Two formidable weapons were loaded, armed and ready to be used if needed; but John was fortunate that the guards stepped back to give John the breathing room that he required. It _did_ feel a little bit strange to be performing such a delicate procedure in the full view of a small audience; they had a few select doctors, as well as the guards, and of course _Mycroft_. And as 'spacious' as the room was, the walls felt as though they were closing in.

And the pressure was rising. _Fast_.

As undignified as he was in his hospital gown and his bare feet, he side glanced at the EKG which spat out a barrage of readings; all of which were bordering on the red zone. O2 levels were crashing, his blood pressure was surging and his heart rate was strumming like a hummingbird. But what worried John _more_ , was how _terrified_ he suddenly felt in the presence of the man lying comatose before him. And yet, it wasn't _John_ that felt terrified. It wasn't _his_ terror, and it wasn't his fear, his pain and everything else that came with the turbulent concoction of emotions that started to seep through his mind as he circled around to the other side of the bed.

 _They belong to Sherlock_.

He gently hovered out his hand over Sherlock's forehead, but refrained as he began to mentally construct some sort of 'battle plan'; and sensitivity was key. To do this _properly_ , he had to reconnect and reconstruct the bond with a meticulousness that he'd been so careless as to ignore beforehand. But since his last cock-up which had led to this problem in the first place, the 'bond' that had once started off as a nagging inkling had now been cemented into something that had almost become _tangible_ ; a thing he could almost reach out and touch.

But now wasn't the time to regret; now was the time to make amends. Besides, he had two lives to save; Sherlock, and Stevran's.

 _Alright, mate. It's just you and me. We're going to be connected; I'm going to set you free._

" _Hels'he dar me'thatu Sherlock mira'sha_." He murmured quietly, much to the confusion of those who stood nearby and watched on. It wasn't so much customary to mutter something in his native tongue before partaking in this particular act (words generally need not be said), but it was almost... A prayer. Not a prayer in some sort of hokey-pokey religious aspect, but a phrase pertaining to good luck. And right now, he could use some.

" _Hels'he dar ma'thitu hers'yha miraht._ " He edged closer and once more hovered the palm of his right hand precariously over the patient, whilst his left hand now maintained a loose grip around Sherlock's own. He could feel the rapid pulse through his clammy palm, but he could also feel the life force that suddenly looped around his own on a different plane entirely. As he lowered and splayed his palm over Sherlock's forehead, a few more stray words were softly uttered beneath his breath as he felt his eyes slowly drift to a close, and with his vision, his thoughts began to sink deeper and deeper.

Deeper until he felt that they were no longer _just_ his own.

* * *

" **Sherlock?** "

A room; he'd suddenly been confined to a room not much larger than the hospital room he was standing in. The walls lacked any interesting decor, and a single halogen seemed rather capable of flooding the room with a sickening glow. Oddly enough, this particular cube of a room lacked any decent furnishings; but it had a particular aroma that wafted through the stagnant atmosphere, and initially John couldn't quite pick it. He'd smelt it before, but not often. And was it pleasant? No. Absolutely not.

He swivelled around and began running his hands along the perimeter of the enclosure as he sought for a means of an escape, but that smell just continued to bombard his senses and he pegged his nose with his fingers; his faced scowled in distaste. Whatever that smell was, it felt incredibly misplaced; _he_ felt incredibly misplaced in the current mindset that he was in.

Which felt like a good question, actually; why had he _here_?

 **"** _ **Hello**_ **?"** Sighing heavily and planting his forehead against the cold walls in defeat, he slowly trailed his fingers down the wall; his mind mentally cursing at the lack of progress he'd already made.

That is, until he felt his hand fall and rest against something hard, cold and _round_.

A doorknob, it seemed.

Twisting it open, John swung the door open to the point where he almost passed out from overexertion. One step and a stumble later, and the ghostly glow of the halogen was swiftly replaced by marvellous chandeliers that hung from atop in a spacious corridor that looked as though it should have belonged to a manor. The walls were even lined with paintings that spanned centuries of human history, some ranging from the Renaissance to the times of the Tudors (John had always had a secret fascination for particular periods of history on Earth, far more so than his own). A plush, velvet carpet greeted his feet, but the corridor seemed _endless_. Looking back and forth, he couldn't seem to focus on an end.

But that _smell_ , it still remained.

" **Sherlock**!" He hollered, cupping his hands between his mouth to amplify his voice. He waited a moment or two, but was met with silence.

That was, until he suddenly heard the energetic patter of feet surge over carpet from behind. In fact, they came on so fast that he didn't even get a moment to turn around to investigate, for a _child_ (no older than eight or nine) breezed by him, and John could have _sworn_ that he looked exactly like his son. The boy seemed dead set on making it to the other end of the corridor (wherever that was) and clearly wished to overtake John, especially given how fast he was running. _And_ , he would have, but John was quick to grasp him softly by the shoulder and spin him around.

Okay, _not_ Stevran. Not even _close_ , actually.

He'd never seen the boy before in his life, but the boy bore a sense of familiarity that he couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was the eyes? Or the curly, tousled hair that reminded him of a particular crank that he knew. But all things aside, he wasn't even fussed on the nagging sensation that he _knew_ this boy. What distracted him was the fact that the child looked absolutely devastated; tears were streaming down his puffy eyes and reddening cheeks.

 **"Have you, have-"** He sniffed, but for his age, he seemed _incredibly_ articulate. **"Have you seen my Redbeard?"**

 _Redbeard?_

Now where had he heard that name before?

 **"I'm sorry, who is-"**

 **"** _ **REDBEARD!**_ **"** As quickly as the child had appeared, a heavy bark (followed by the repugnant smell of wet dog - and suddenly, that smell made sense) accompanied an Irish Red Setter who barrelled down the hallway and slipped past John from behjind and the child was quick to pull away, his hands waving as he took off after his dog. John was almost in the process of chasing after them, but he perked up at the sound of a door swinging open further down the hall, and the boy and his dog suddenly changed direction and disappeared into the shadowed room. At the time he hadn't been aware as to why, but he felt incredibly compelled to launch himself on foot and find out _what_ exactly was hidden in this 'mystery' room that had just opened up.

 **"Hey! Wait, who are you? Have you seen Sherlock?** " As he ran faster and faster, it felt like an effort to just to _see_ the open doorway. Minutes, perhaps hours passed - but each step closer was fuelled on by sheer determination as he threw an arm out and latched his grip around the doorframe and pulled himself into the darkened room. A loud 'thud' indicated that the door had slammed shut behind him (certainly hadn't been him who had shut it), but for a short moment he'd been concealed in nothing but darkness.

And then, the lights turned on.

" **What in the world..."**

He was in Bart's. The morgue, to be specific - and at first glance, there wasn't a soul in sight. He was alone.

Very much, alone.

" **Is anyone here?!"** He swivelled around, began running to all corners of the expansive setup and even went as far as to start checking the freezers where the bodies were generally stored, but nothing showed up. He was starting to get the very uneasy feeling that this mental endeavour was just a lost cause, and that all was lost. After all, how could he help Sherlock if he couldn't even find him?

" **Please..."** He begged, his voice starting to break. **"I'm sorry. I am, and you can go on hating me for the rest of my life, but right now I need you to come back. Find me, Sherlock."** He turned around, his eyes desperately searching for a _sign_. Anything that would indicate Sherlock's mental awareness of John's presence.

 **"** _ **Please.**_ **"**

* * *

All sorts of things that weren't supposed to be happening were happening. All sorts of things that _were_ supposed to be happening, weren't.

Sherlock had never experienced this sort of madness inside his own head. There had been times when his mind had been insufferable, causing him to suffer through excruciating headaches, especially when he was an adolescent. When Mycroft had been living at home, he had been able to help. He hadn't always been willing—he was not the best elder brother by any means—but he was, at least, capable.

Mycroft was the one who had told him to develop a fortress in his mind where he could store his memories. 'Lock them up,' he had told Sherlock, 'and only open it up when you need something.'

Sherlock had done so. The building had started out small, but as he grew and learned more and more it had developed into a massive palace. It soon became too much for him; it started to take him longer and longer to find the information he needed in various situations. That was when Sherlock realised that he was filling his head with all sorts of rubbish that didn't need to be there. He began to delete it.

How ironic. Maybe if he hadn't deleted everything he had ever learned about the solar system, he would have been more prepared to learn what John was. It was doubtful, but possible. Anything was. Sherlock knew that, now.

It was impossible for Sherlock to tell where he was. He was in his own mind palace, and he knew _that_ , but even though he had used to be so familiar with the layout, knowing it like the back of his own hand, it was now something quite different. The hallways went in different directions; there were dead ends where they weren't before. The rooms were spinning and some corridors seemed to never end. None of the rooms had windows, leaving him feeling completely trapped inside of his own head—which, unbeknownst to him, he _was_ —and he couldn't even find the front door to escape.

After hours upon hours, or what he thought were hours and hours, of searching for an exit, Sherlock barged into a room. John's room. It was the largest of anyone that he knew, containing all the factoids about John's life that the doctor had ever given him, either verbally or just through Sherlock's own observations.

Harry was sitting in an armchair, a bottle of vodka in her hand. She looked over at him, smirking, and slurred, **"Sssso. You've…you've f-fffinally figured it out, have you? Took you long enough, Mr. World'sss-Only-C-Conssulting-Detective. Ha!"**

She wasn't real. Not in this context, not in this _role_. She was an alcoholic and a real person, but the representation of her didn't belong _here_.

Even if she hadn't mocked him, Sherlock would have done the same thing: he walked right over to her, gripped the front of her shirt, and dragged her over to the door, promptly pushing her out of the room. He wasn't gentle about it; he wasn't patient. She didn't belong in the room so she had to _leave_.

Sherlock turned around and slammed the door shut behind him. He stared at the contents of John's room and nearly whimpered (which was something he _never_ did). This wasn't right. None of it was right! All of those childhood memories with Harry, they weren't real! John's primary and secondary schooling, his time at college and Uni, that wasn't bloody real, either!

 _None_ of it was!

Sherlock knew what he had to do. He began to tear charts off the wall, pull books off the shelves—ones that he had seen John read; even the things that were real appeared to him to no longer be—and he tore them up, ripping out pages, breaking the spines. The lights in the room flickered on and off as he worked, but Sherlock continued to plow through, destroying everything that he could.

It was useless. As soon as he tore something up—John's medical degree from Bart's, for instance—it immediately reappeared, put back together as if nothing had been done to it in the first place. Sherlock turned around and looked at the destroyed books; they were all resting upon the shelf neatly, as if they had never been pulled off or torn up.

Harry was on the couch again, watching him, amused, and smirking.

Sherlock was out of breath. His chest was rising and falling as he panted; his face was hot and he could feel beads of sweat trailing down his brow, dripping off his nose. His sudden fit had taken a lot out of him, but it had all been for nothing. The room was neat and organised as it had been when he'd first entered.

It was useless. John had become such an integral and necessary part of Sherlock's life that he couldn't delete him. He wanted to—didn't he?—but he couldn't follow through. His own mind wouldn't _let_ him. It was self-preservation at its finest; if he were to delete John Watson, Sherlock Holmes would cease to exist.

But that wasn't the bond John was talking about. The idea crossed through Sherlock's muddled mind, but it couldn't have been. John had continued on living after his wife and daughter were killed. It wasn't an issue of one partner dying when the other did, or heartbreak being the thing to cut their life short. It made them life out the rest of their life in misery, Sherlock could see that, but killing them?

No. It wasn't deadly. It was just _horrible._

The walls began crumbling, moving closer around him as they closed in. He didn't want to be trapped in this room, not with all of John's factoids and memories and feelings. He had seen enough of them already, just because they had been _forced_ upon him, and it was more than enough.

It was too much.

He slammed his shoulder against the door once, twice, three times, until it finally flung open.

He started running.

* * *

The noise was what got Jim Moriarty's attention. All that screaming, all that _racket_.

" **Is anyone here?!"**

 **"Please…I'm sorry. I am, and you can go on hating me for the rest of my life, but right now I need you to come back. Find me, Sherlock."**

" **Please."**

The criminal chuckled as he scuttled along, all eight of his black eyes shifting back and forth. Eight eyes and eight legs, all protruding from his sides, armored with a hard, jet-black exoskeleton and so tall that they lifted him off the ground. He had two chelicerae hanging out of his mouth, sharp, like two overly-large fangs.

Sherlock had thought of him as a spider, after all, so that was what he had become.

With one of the sharps ends on his front-right leg, Jim pushed open the door of the room the voice was coming from.

" **You won't find him like that, Johnny-Boy,"** Jim suddenly spoke, blinking each of his eyes simultaneously as they landed on the doctor. The poor man looked frightened—desperate. More than anything, though, guilty.

Good.

" **What makes you think he even wants to be found, hmm? After what you did to him…all those** _ **lies**_ **. You've lied to him more than I have, and you're supposed to be his** _ **friend**_ **."**

Despite his odd appearance, it was still very obviously _Jim_ who was speaking. He was smiling pleasantly, just as he had when he had met John and Sherlock for the first and only time at the pool where he'd killed the stupid Powers boy. Jim had no regrets about it then, and he had no regrets about it now. His voice, though heavily influenced by a venomous hiss, still held the familiar Irish lilt, that playfulness that one didn't know whether to enjoy or fear.

Sherlock did both. That was why Jim liked him so much.

" **Although, what's the point, anyway? Why are you even here? To assuage your own guilt? He hates you, you know. He won't ever forgive you for this."**

Whether that was true or not remained to be seen. The Spider was nothing more than a representation of the way Sherlock thought of Moriarty; it was a figment of his imagination based off a real person. As such, Moriarty—whether real or imaginary—was destined to be a master liar and manipulator.

Or maybe he was telling the truth. The truth of Sherlock's subconscious.

Before either man—or, either the alien or the arachnid—could say anything further, the door was opened again and Sherlock barreled inside. He put his hands on his thighs and hunched over, panting to catch his breath. He couldn't find his way out. He had been calm, at first, but now he was panicking.

It took a _lot_ to make Sherlock Holmes panic.

He saw Jim before he saw John.

" **Jim. Help me."**

Of course the spider was surprised to hear such a request.

" **What's this? The great Sherlock Holmes, asking for help? From a consulting criminal, no less?"**

" **Yes."**

" **Say please."**

" **I did."**

" **No you didn't. John, did he say 'please'?"**

Sherlock froze. His breaths stopped and the only thing he could hear, suddenly, was his own heart beating, louder and faster. John was here. John was right here, in this room. Sherlock could see him now, from behind Jim's legs.

" **I'm sure John would be willing to help you,"** Jim continued, lifting two of his legs in a shrug. **"After all, he is your only friend, is he not? Your best. Friend. While I've never had one myself, I've come to believe that helping one another is what friends** _ **do**_ **."**

After looking between the two men, Jim smirked.

" **I'll leave you boys to it."**

He was quick to scurry out of the room, leaving Sherlock and John behind.

For a moment, Sherlock didn't speak. He couldn't think of what to say, or even how to talk. He could hear the clicking sound of Jim's pointed legs getting softer and softer as he retreated down the corridor, sounds and sensations slowly being fed back into his body, but he still couldn't talk.

An eternity passed. And then another.

Even though he felt like a rabbit trapped in a cage, Sherlock straightened up. He cleared his throat and stared down his nose at John, attempting to regain and retain as much of his dignity as he could.

Which wasn't much. It didn't _work_.

" **You ruined my mind palace,"** he told John bitterly, glaring at the other man, the imaginary representation. **"Although I suppose it wasn't really** _ **you,**_ **was it? It was the real you. The one I can't trust. The one who lied to me every goddamn day since we've met."** Sherlock huffed a mirthless laugh. **"And to think,** _ **I'm**_ **the one who people see as the bastard. Granted, I** _ **am**_ **one, but…I digress."**

Sherlock looked at the fake John, his expression open—he was in his own head, after all; he didn't _have_ to maintain his pride, even though he normally did try to. It was plain on his face how angry he was, but more than that, how much he was _hurting_.

" **How could you do this to me, John? My only friend. The only person with whom I have ever willingly socialised The only person with whom I could ever see there being more with.**

" **Did you not ever think about how this would affect me? It is destroying my mind, John. Whatever you did to me, at Baker Street—that was only the tipping point. What** _ **did**_ **you do? I don't like it, whatever it was. I'd even go so far as to say that I hate it. You gave me memories of yours that I didn't ask for, that I don't want. And you're seeing every goddamn thing that's ever happened to me. You are emotionally raping me. Did it never occur to you that it might be a bad idea?"**

Maybe he was being harsh, but here in his mind, where he could speak without thinking about how others would react, he was free to do whatever he bloody wanted.

 _You won't find him like that, Johnny-Boy._

In retrospect, witnessing an arachnid representation of his arch nemesis wasn't exactly what he'd expected to see scuttling into view. It seemed poetically fitting, actually; John had always viewed Moriarty as nothing more than a spider, and Sherlock had often described him as such (and to some degree, with a sense of admiralty). But to John, he dared not think of him as something so glorious as a 'mastermind'. On the contrary, he was a waste of matter; _insects_ had more breathing rights than he.

Speaking of air, the temperature in the room felt as though it'd dropped a solid ten degrees celsius as tension in the room thickened to the point where he felt he might suffocate. It felt horrible, but not nearly as terrible as the sight of Jim effortlessly alternate his legwork so to back John against the cold metal surface of the freezer-filled wall.

" **Moriarty**."

 _All_ those eyes, and he wasn't entirely sure as to which ones he needed to pay attention to. But when he found a pair to gaze at, he was easily unhinged by those perilous-looking fangs that practically oozed venom as they glinted to life as Jim purred his mocking words to the doctor. Just staring at such an abomination made John feel physically ill, but not simply because the sight of such a monstrosity struck fear into his heart; no, it wasn't that simple.

The mere fact that Sherlock had such a nightmare locked away with the grandness of his mentally constructed palace made John truly aware of how deep a burden that man truly carried. There'd been often a time where John would frequently have moments of envy for the perfectly rounded eidetic memory that Sherlock displayed (John's knowledge of science and medicine were excellent, but Sherlock's mind in a general sense was utterly profound), but never once had John assumed that with great brilliance, it carried a catch.

And didn't the saying go that _everyone_ had their inner demons?

 **"Looking** _ **well**_ **, I see. Fitting.** "

He honestly had to flinch each time he heard the 'man' slip words off his tongue in such a sing-song manner, almost as if he were speaking down to a child. What was generally a relatively pleasant, charming accent was easily taken as manipulative and cold with Moriarty; his accent twisted into something cunning. Something cruel.

 _This is all in your head; it's just a figment! Why are you scared?_

Wrong. A figment he may be, but this wasn't in John's head. Stepping into another's mind tended to be incredibly confusing for _both_ parties involved. And as delicately as John had entered, it wasn't advisable to rattle the walls and kick down the doors. A mind was a delicate construction, and considering Sherlock's was essentially a palace (at present, mismatched and convoluted), treating this place as a war-zone wasn't advisable.

He allowed the figment to callously make harmful jibes at John's expense, but the alien paid him no mind. Instead, he watched. He _listened_ , but he didn't let it get to him. This might have been one of the many monsters hidden in Sherlock's closet, but to the closet it would eventually return.

 **"You think you're right, do you?"** Perhaps a bit of a shakedown was _exactly_ what the walls of this realm required. **"How about you go back to the web you-."**

The sudden jolt from the door swinging open and colliding with the wall was enough to cause John to catch his breath and his back to press hard against the freezers; even the spider's attention had been momentarily diverted as the man of the hour slipped mildly into view, yet slightly concealed behind one of the many legs of the detestable arachnid.

At first, John couldn't quite get a decent view as to the identity of the stranger who'd barged in mid-conversation, but he could practically sense the exhaustion that seethed off of the panting man. He could see that the man had hunched over to wheeze through what seemed like something caught between overexertion and panic, but as he resumed a proper stance his identity became clear.

Signature black curls, pale skin and pointed features were enough to send John doubling over out of relief. Sherlock was _here_ ; the real, honest, proper representation of the detective within the confines of his own mind. Whether or not he'd heard the cry from John, or had simply barged into the 'morgue' by chance was just a question without an answer, but John couldn't care less. Sherlock was here.

And together, he'd save him. He'd get him out, and they'd be able to make amends and rebuild.

He played audience to a brief exchange of words between nemesis and foe; Moriarty clearly bending his power of fear and torment over that of a terrified man. The spider was adequate in his role as being nothing more than a nightmare, and Sherlock was letting fear dictate his words; to make his decisions _for_ him.

 _Oh, Sherlock._

 _Just how broken have you become? You are_ _ **so**_ _much stronger than this._

 _So_ _ **very**_ _much stronger._

Just how long had it felt for Sherlock to be trapped within the walls of his mind? Had it felt like days? Months? An eternity was immeasurable but as similar to a lucid dream, time had no place or meaning. It was irrelevant, but an eternity paired irrelevance was enough to make the mind of a genius like Sherlock start to fray and tear. Not to mention, if the spider was but a single nightmare that Sherlock had concocted, then what _else_ hid within the shadows of his fears? What else made him tremble?

What did he fear _most_?

Relief swallowed his heart as he witnessed Moriarty take his leave; and finally, they were alone. Free of nightmares, free of fears; all but the fear that John had for the stability of their partnership.

 _Our relationship_.

The silence between them was deafening as they did nothing but _stare;_ Sherlock was but a few feet away and John still had his back to the wall. Nothing happened, and nobody spoke.

Just like the real world, it seemed.

But when Sherlock found his voice, such came the onslaught that John had had little preparation for. The bombardment of accusations that bore a drenching of truth; one after the other and showing barely a sign of slowing down. He winced, he grimaced and chewed on his lower lip as he let words tear into his heart like daggers, each worse than the last. To each point Sherlock made, he could do nothing but nod. To each accusation brought to light, he could do nothing but _agree_.

Sherlock was spot on. Correct. Never wrong, as he claimed. John was a liar; he _is_ , a liar. Aside from a few minor truths, his life on Earth and the history attributed to such a life was essentially a colourful fabrication. In fact, after reciting his lies for the better portion of a decade, he'd almost started to believe them himself. And if he'd been upfront and honest about his unique origins from the start, there would be have been a _minor_ period of disbelief and shock, but they would have _moved on_.

They would have sorted this crock from the start; perhaps, they would have been far closer than they were now.

But John had to bring his thoughts quickly into check; he'd had **reasons** for not being openly honest, and they were entirely valid. Point one; humans didn't know about sentient alien life (or any, for that matter, and such knowledge could be damaging to the entire population if John had been more liberal with telling one after the other. That was fair; his concerns were certainly warranted in that respect.

Point two; Sherlock didn't cope well with things that he just _couldn't_ understand. Granted, there weren't many items that made it to that status, but John had grown so comfortable with just being 'John', it grew harder and harder to muster up _any_ courage to be openly truthful. If plain old 'John' suddenly became 'extraterrestrial John', Sherlock wouldn't easily get a grasp on such a startling transition. Ergo, it'd likely throw a spanner in the works and could cause significant damage to what had _once_ been such a smooth and stable friendship.

Point three; _fear_. Basically tied in with point two, but he feared being taken away. He feared being experimented on, or being pinned to a table by the overly watchful, scrutinising eyes of Mycroft Holmes. Fear was an incredibly driving factor and over the years, it had moulded John into something of a coward. If he'd just been honest from the start, it would have been easier. Disbelief and a bit of fear would have been the likely result, but they could have moved _past_ that. In time, things would have healed.

Key word; _time_.

 _You ruined my mind palace._

 **"I did."** His heart sunk, but he nodded. **"I ruined it. I kicked down the door and I abused the privilege of your company. I ruined it, and I'm sorry."**

 _It was the real you. The one I can't trust._

 **"Again, you're right. You can't trust me, because I abused that trust. For that, I am sorry, Sherlock."**

 _The one who lied to me every goddam day since we've met._

 **"You know, you're right about that as well.** " He pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked heavily to fight back the grief that vowed to make a vengeance in the form of glistening tears that were ready to break bank, but he fortunately refrained. The pain in his voice however, that was as clear as crystal. **"I can't take back the blatant dishonesty I soiled our friendship with, but I can acknowledge it. I was wrong. I lied. All the days, minutes and seconds that I've known you; I've lied. Lying is easy; lying is what cowards do, what** _ **lazy**_ **people do. That's what I am, Sherlock. A coward. A liar, a cheat and a coward. You are absolutely, utterly correct."** He paused, taking a moment to steady his breathing. **"Everything I've done, even saving your life - what does that matter when I can't even justify myself as being an adequate friend? You deserve better, Sherlock. I don't** _ **deserve**_ **you.**

 **"I never thought about it, no;** _ **connecting**_ **with your mind, I mean. And that's the thing, I didn't** _ **think**_ **."** No, he'd _acted_. **"I feared that I'd lose you; that you'd walk out of my life because Stevran came back in. I acted on fear and I didn't think and** _ **yes**_ **; I** _ **raped**_ **your emotions, I raped your mind. And it never occurred to me, because I never even gave my mind a chance to weigh up the consequences. I acted as a fool, a coward, a terrible friend, a weakling, a rat-** " He choked on the last word, and felt his back slide against the surface behind him until he was on his behind; his knees slowly being brought up close to his chest.

 **"So no, it never occurred to me that** _ **raping**_ **your mind would be a bad idea. No. It never did, and all I can say is** _ **sorry**_ **. Sorry for what I've done. Sorry for every way I've ever wronged you; sorry for** _ **fucking**_ **it all up."**

Sorry, sorry, _sorry_. John wasn't sure such a word could be repeated so many times during a single conversation, but here he stood, corrected. All he could do was apologise, and be as sincere as one could possibly be. After all, there was _plenty_ riding on John being able to convince Sherlock to come _back_ to consciousness; Stevran's life, for one.

 **"I can never take back the memories I've given you, nor can I remove the ones I've seen from your own mind.** " He swallowed thickly, his head now buried in his hands. **"I can't fix this; you and me. I've sodded it up. I well and truly have made a mockery of our friendship."** At this point, his words were falling apart; his voice sounded strained and incredibly choked up. **"But our friendship... Look, the consequences are mine to bear. The love and respect I have for you, that will always remain. But right now..."** He fought back a sob. **"You need to wake up."**

And so, the issue of John's visit came to light.

 **"Your body is dying, Sherlock.** " He couldn't bring himself to look at the man, all he could do was stare into the darkness within the splayed palms of his hands. **"Your blood pressure is astronomically high, your heart rate is off the charts; crashed O2 levels, everything. Right now, I'm standing beside your bed and I'm holding your hand. Mycroft is beside me.**

 **"So either you let me help you to wake up, or you die. You will die.** **And as much as I've fucked this up,** _ **please don't die**_ **.** _**Please**_ **."**


End file.
